Far Better Fate
by brontosaurus
Summary: AU. Blaine, eager to escape bad memories attached to Ohio, convinces his parents to let him transfer to a small arts college in Vermont. Aloof Kurt Hummel catches his eye, Santana forces her special brand of 'help' on him, and nobody knows that he's gay.
1. Chapter 1

_[A/N This is different to anything I've posted before in just about every way, so I'm a little nervous._

_As the description says, it's AU, and told by Blaine in first person. This first chapter is a bit dense and the second one might be too, but Blaine needs to get all his Blaine-y backstory out of the way before I introduce Kurt and the gang. Also, this is a little angstier than the story will be as a whole. I hope you'll wade through._

_Any feedback at this point will be insanely appreciated! Like I said, nervous!_

**_Edit: I've bumped this up to M. At the moment it's _just for a bit of swearing and hormones, but later chapters will have sex and possible triggers, so might as well make that clear now.__**

_I don't own glee, or Blaine. I hope you enjoy.]_

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><p>There were so many incidences that led to me finally leaving Ohio. If I desired I could easily just put it down to plain old boredom though.<p>

God, Ohio was boring.

Actually, that's what I tell most people when they ask. It's the kind of response that I wheel out automatically. Sort of like when someone asks 'how are you?' Most of the time the truth could fill pages, but what's the textbook reply? 'Fine, thanks.' It's just easier that way. Especially for me. I'm not really prone to _confiding_.

Nor am I what you'd call an open book… I'm the kind of tome that you'd find cowering in the dim vaults of any given National Library. My pages aren't quite crumbling, but the secrets I hold are powdered with dust and long forgotten. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the image I project, but it's the truth behind my broad smiles and avuncular winks. I tend to encourage the opposite of that old adage "don't judge a book by its cover." Where I'm concerned, that's exactly what I want people to do.

I sometimes find myself ashamed by how much of me is surface. I have so many friends and acquaintances (a handful of which could dare call themselves my confidants without their noses growing) though not much in the way of indispensible company. I really am just _Blaine Anderson, the ex-Warbler_ to most of the people I know.

On the other hand, I try not to worry about my duplicity. It's quite harmless after all. If this wasn't the way I wanted things to be then I'd change. I can be a little… calculated, sometimes._ Calculating_ even, if only in regards to socialising and interacting.

Prime example?

I didn't really leave Ohio because it was boring.

See? I lie. Little whites lies for the most part, but lies all the same. Never big enough for anyone to really give them a second thought. That's why I get away with them, and that's how I ended up driving into this small Liberal Arts college in Southwest Vermont on a Saturday morning near the new term's beginning…

I'd hate for you to come into this in the middle though, so bear with me.

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><p>I'd lived in Ohio my whole life. Westerville to be precise. As a child it was a place that I indiscriminately adored. I adored our big two story baby blue house nestled in the cul-de-sac of a glossy, treeless suburb. I adored my school and the way everyone seemed to know each other. I especially adored getting up at seven o'clock every morning and riding around on my red BMX before breakfast, the world my oyster. There's an effortless fitness and an absurd ability to voluntarily rise at early hours that I've noticed is the sole province of the very young. Once I reached high school and had to start working to maintain a 'respectable'physique, it was one of the many things from that age that I missed.<p>

What I missed most of all was the way that I'd loved my parents then. I still do love them I suppose, but I can't ever seem to muster that unquestioning love I had as an infant. It's a truth that most children will automatically agree with and believe anything their parents lay before them. Their word is gospel, and when young we would follow them to the edge of the world. To be certain of any less at such an age would be torture. Even when they scolded me, or argued with each other over money or family or whatever it is that married couples always seem to argue about, I would unhappily submit, if only so I could go on loving them so profoundly. I, like almost all others, allowed them to mould my mind and shape my introductory ethics and morals without question. Any poorly formed opinions I spouted in class were not my own, but a regurgitation of theirs. And that was fine. I was absolutely _fine _with that.

Unfortunately, even as I continued to love them as deeply as I did, my young self seemed to realise that such depth of love was finite. It may have even been on a purely subconscious level, I won't pretend to remember exactly, but I knew that that purest of feelings had a shelf life. One that approached even faster than I could have ever been prepared for.

I grew into a bright, studious, but surprisingly headstrong teenager (I say headstrong, my many superiors maintain that a more appropriate moniker would be _belligerent_) and my faith in my parent's infallibility began to crack and peel like old paint. I was no longer a miniature extension of their personalities, but my very own creature, equally flawed and opinionated.

That's the word though, isn't it? _Flawed_. I was marginally prepared and groomed to deal with my own faults, but I struggled to come to grips with my parents' ones which now lay stark before me, veil drawn back. How can one suddenly comprehend their creators' now glaringly obvious inaccuracies? It's too much for any fresh faced teen.

I really wish I'd been the exception to the trend.

So, there I was, public school and rushing hormones and wide, wide eyes. I couldn't possibly open them far enough to take in all that seemed to be blossoming in front of me. I realised that I loved the arts and music, and had a proficiency for writing and prose, excelling in all of my literature classes. I paradoxically enjoyed physical education and I was also prominent in our school's Glee club. Remarkably I wasn't ostracized for that latter activity. I usually kept my head down, still managing to cultivate a curious level of respect and popularity amongst my peers. By then the mask I wear now was only just beginning to form, but my current preoccupation with outer image was breaching.

At this point my parents and I continued to love each other, even as certain of their views would sting and grate against my steady social enlightenment.

I was so busy learning about the environment around me, but it was nothing compared to the things I was realising about myself. Over a period of a couple of years my world expanded and exploded. Everything became brighter, yet more chaotic as I relaxed into myself with perfect clarity.

I liked boys.

I was gay.

Previous to what felt like my perfect sexual illumination, I had suspected this very fact. My only attraction to girls was a rote one. _Seven Minutes in Heaven _and _Kisschasey_, played simply because everyone else was playing them. It took the glorious plunge into puberty for me to actually question my urges though. Like I said, any interest in the childish idea of 'sex' that I'd had before the age of fourteen was always just a sad imitation of the adults around me as opposed to an actual curiosity.

But, now… God, I loved boys.

It came at me so fast and was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Was there anyone I could tell? Did I know anyone else who was gay? What would my family say?

Well, I knew the answer to that last question. This, I was certain, was the greatest of many new things that my parents and I would fail to see eye to eye on. You can't be raised in a house where your dad has been known to tell 'fag' jokes and feel at ease with coming out. Despite this, I was still unsure how serious my father's homophobia was. For all I knew the jokes weren't made in hate, but in ignorance. Perhaps he just didn't quite realise how offensive they were. Nonetheless, It would be a while before I gained the confidence to tell him I was gay.

I continued as I had, albeit with a slightly altered perspective of things. It bothered me that I remained in the closet, but the thought of coming out without any kind of guaranteed network of support was too much to comprehend. Instead I kept my ears perked and tried my best to blend in without compromising myself too much. The payoff to this arguably cowardly tactic came just before I turned sixteen when a new boy transferred to my school and joined the Glee Club. An openly gay boy.

His name was Malcolm. He didn't announce to the school that he was gay or anything like that, but offhand comments about ex-boyfriends and the like alerted the majority soon enough. High school gossip is currency after all. Malcolm was a metaphorical heaving suitcase of cash. He copped a fair bit of abuse, mostly verbal, some of it physical, but always held his head high. I desperately wanted to approach him and confide in him, ask him for every scrap of knowledge and experience he possessed, but for a while I contented myself with merely observing. Watching what it was like for him and how he handled himself in what seemed to be a hellish and lonely situation.

To see what he went through every day simultaneously made me even less eager to come out, yet shamed me bitterly for hiding. I would feel a hot wave of guilt and anger at myself whenever I thought about it and steeled to at least reveal myself to him if no one else.

It was after Glee club one day that I finally introduced myself formally. He was polite and well-spoken and a little bit abrasive. I suppose he'd learnt the hard way that he couldn't afford to be one without the other, even if he'd rather not have been. A kind of learnt defence mechanism. I asked him if he'd join me for coffee and he seemed quite happy at the invitation. We talked about small things for a while out of common courtesy. Where had he last gone to school? How was he liking Westerville? After a while I picked up on a warmth in his eyes that I took to mean that he felt at least marginally comfortable in my presence, and breached the subject that had been gnawing on my mind for weeks.

I wasn't sure how to do so without sounding rude or unacceptably forward, so I simply dove in head first.

"Malcolm… I don't want to make you uncomfortable, and I'm sorry if I offend you, but… are you gay?" I kept my voice low and held his gaze, trying to project openness and trust.

His eyes widened a little at the question, but otherwise he seemed unfazed, "Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?"

I stammered, "No! No, god no. Not at all. It's just…" I swallowed hard, my stomach churning, "… I… I am too. Gay, that is."

I'd finally said it.

He cocked his head, "Oh?"

"I've never told anyone before." I whispered.

"OK. That's kind of rough."

"I know."

He sat back and peered at me, "Why are you telling _me_? We only just met Blaine."

I sighed, "I know, it's weird and I'm really sorry to put you in this situation. I know it's not fair, but… I don't know anyone else who's gay. I was… I don't think I could have coped with hiding it much longer. I think I just needed to tell _someone_. I thought if I told you there was a pretty big chance you'd… I dunno… understand. Maybe empathise…"

He twisted his mouth a bit, "Well, that's pretty presumptuous."

I didn't know what to say. I don't think he was really mad at me, but I felt like an idiot and my face must have been a picture of misery. I could feel blood filling my cheeks and I covered my eyes with a hand and breathed deeply.

"I'm sorry." I whispered, "You can go. I'm really sorry Malcolm."

Thirty seconds must have passed, and though I assumed he'd left I kept my eyes closed. Behind my lids was an unpleasant prickling feeling that I resolved to resist at all costs.

I was surprised when warm, kind fingers took hold of my own and pried them gently from my face. I looked up warily to see Malcolm exactly where he had been, watching the whole time with a sad look. I shudder to think there was pity present, but maybe it was.

"Blaine…" he said.

I shook my head lips pursed. He didn't have to stay. I'd embarrassed both of us enough. I even tried to pull my hand away, but he held tight.

"I'm sorry." He said.

I wasn't sure how to take that. How many different meanings could those two short words project? The only inflection in his voice was one of cheerlessness, which could also have been interpreted any which way.

"Why?" I tried to say it soundly but my voice cracked and it kind of hissed from the back of my throat. This wasn't how I'd intended to react. The best laid plans of mice and men, I guess.

"For… being alone. I know what that's like." He looked down, just for a second.

I rubbed my eyes, "This isn't a cry for help."

God, I was such a liar.

He breathed out through his nose, "Then what is it?"

For a second I contemplated anger, but it ebbed as soon as it had come when I remembered that I had backed him into this situation. I had no right. I'd given him permission to ask me questions like that when I'd invaded his own privacy.

I looked up, "It's a _scream_."

His eyebrows knitted briefly, nodding slowly, "You just needed someone to talk to..."

"Someone who might understand."

He squeezed my hand a little, "OK."

My mind began racing, "This isn't… I'm not looking for charity. I don't want to be… coddled. Or babysat." I flailed, "I just want to talk."

He stared at me, "Blaine. I _do_ understand."

I finally extricated my hand from his and put it back over my eyes. My aim to not cry was now a lost cause. It wasn't like me to wear my heart so blatantly on my sleeve and I would hide what I could from him. Even so… breaking down like that, in front of him… it did something to me. Us. From then on I saw him differently from how I saw others. It was probably because of what I'd allowed him to glimpse in me. He'd not seen the worst of me, but it was the closest that anyone had come to doing so for a long time. I could allow myself to _fall_ in his company. I could stoop lower than was my custom because he'd already witnessed it to an extent, and vice versa.

All traces of defensiveness that he'd exuded in our first meeting dissipated in the light of my own wretched honesty. He confided in me and tutored me. He didn't talk down to me or frown upon me for my still closeted existence and he made an effort to make me strong. As inwardly sturdy as I appeared outwardly.

After a month of this, plum with a tenuous contentment that I'd not felt for a long time, I found myself viewing him in a different way. To me his brown hair became a warm chestnut, his green eyes, emerald. His protectively large hands became gorgeously carved objects and his off kilter smile sowed impure thoughts in my very existence. I'd lusted before, but this felt like it had a deeper root. This felt tangible. We'd be swaying next to one another in Glee Club and I could just reach out and take his hand in a display of my platonic dedication to performance, only for him to smile back at me and wink. We'd be sitting in the same coffee shop where we first 'met' each other and he'd brush an eyelash from my cheek carelessly in that way that friends do.

The difference was that when he did it, it rocked me to my core.

I'd feel myself blush a little and look down with a grin, quickly segueing into any harmless conversation to take my mind from the stirring of testosterone I fought on a daily basis. I had fallen for Malcolm like I'd never intended. I _knew_ the absurdity in the fact that I'd fallen for the first gay guy I ever met, but my heart failed to care. Cliché or not, I was smitten.

One afternoon, some three months into our vital friendship, he'd come around to my house for a sleepover. My parents still didn't know I was gay, neither of us letting on that Malcolm was either, so to them it was simply a boys night. We'd watch DVDs and talk about whatever it was that teenage boys talked about these days. Football, cars, whatever.

At first we did just watch DVDs. We put on _Slumdog Millionaire_ and sat against the headboard of my bed, commenting every now and then, and I tried to still my slightly shaky hands.

An hour in Mal turned to me, "OK, don't get me wrong, this movie deserves all the praise in the world, but oh my god it's depressing!"

I laughed, "I was thinking the exact same thing."

"Want to turn it off?"

"Kay."

I shuffled to the end of the bed and grabbed the remote, pressing stop and turning to ask Mal what he wanted to do next.

He was so close behind me that I felt his breath on my face and I swallowed hard, my eyes darting between both of his. He put his hand on my cheek, really just barely grazing it with his fingertips.

"Is this OK?" he whispered.

I was frozen, "Uh huh…"

His other hand crept to my waist, "Tell me to stop if you want."

The feel of another person's touch on my flesh was such an unfamiliar sensation that I flinched a little and he paused. I put my own hand over his encouragingly and pushed it back against my midriff.

"Please, don't stop."

His eyes blazed a little and he moved in slowly, brushing my lips with his own. After a few seconds I leant in and applied more pressure to the kiss, a signal he seemed to have been waiting for. His touch became more desperate and I gasped into his mouth, daring to let my tongue venture past his lips. I'd kissed girls before, but those experiences were immediately buried beneath the passion I felt in that moment. What was a girl again?

His hand found the small of my back and he lay down, pulling me on top of him. That night our clothes stayed on and we didn't make it any further into physical intimacy than each other's mouths, but our emotional, intellectual closeness… it ventured into a place I'd hitherto been unaware of. The mere indication of his attraction to me, and my compliance, was enough to break down any barriers that may have been preventing us from admitting the lure we felt for one another.

That night I lay nestled in the taller boys arms, breathing against his heaving chest and smiling until I felt my face would split. His hands, those beautiful hands, wandered up and down my torso and tangled in the back of my hair as I clutched his axis. He smelt like wool and soap and _Imperial Leather,_ made more evocative by the natural warmth of his hard body. The feelings that bloomed in me that night were like nothing I'd ever experienced. Whispering into his sweater and hearing the hum of his voice through his sternum… I felt I'd up and melt away.

There was never a point when we formally decided with one another that we were in a relationship, but from then on we were unequivocally each other's boyfriends.

_Boyfriends._

I could hardly believe it.

In hanging out with Malcolm so often I'd already garnered a bit of negative publicity. Regardless of any previous standing I'd had in the school, I was best friends with 'That Gay Kid.' I must have been gay too. They treated me thus. To the great majority gay was bad. Gay was a sin. To them I was a sinner. _We _were sinners. If that was what they assumed then I was going to be that fucking sinner.

I came out at school first. No big fanfare, but holding hands in the halls and making eyes in the cafeteria. Regardless of what anyone thought, I was proud to be Malcolm's boyfriend. To have him on my arm was all the armour I needed. Or at least that was the case for a while.

With Mal as my brace, I decided to finally come out to my parents. He wasn't with me when I did it, but that day he'd slipped a note into my locker, scrawled on a scrap of paper.

_Good luck beautiful. If they don't accept you they don't deserve you. Call me when you're done._

_xo_

As I read it I felt I might be sick. It may seem fickle, but at that moment I realised that any love I'd lost with my parents over last few years had now been supplemented by Malcolm. He filled the empty cracks that had whistled and groaned as I grew.

I approached my parents in the kitchen and asked to talk to them, clutching Mal's note in my jacket pocket. I made my announcement short and sweet. You know, 'mum, dad, I'm gay.' I could tell they didn't expect it. My mother asked very few questions, and hugged me once I'd choked it out. My father… well, he didn't disown me. I watched him intently as the news sank in and I swear I saw his eyes dim a little. They also misted over as he approached me and patted me on the shoulder with a, 'that's OK… that's fine.' I'm proud of him for not reacting in a more dramatic way… I think it's admirable that someone of his generation, obviously brought up with homosexuality cast in an unfavourable light, could accept me so willingly, but never again did we quite click like we once had. We weren't really that 'father and son' duo that so many aspire to… we were flesh and blood who'd somehow lost track of one another along the way, wandering down separate forks in the road, seeing and hearing each other from a distance. It would have been heartbreaking if I'd not fortified myself to it long ago.

So, that's what I mean. My small family was still a family, but an odd one. Drifting along next to each other on different tectonic plates.

After that blessedly subdued confrontation I made straight for my room and dialled Mal's number in a haze. He picked up on the second ring.

"Blaine? How did it go? Are you OK?"

"I love you." I gasped.

There was a brief silence which I was in no state to analyse.

"I love you too." He croaked.

"Can I come over?"

"Of course. Hurry."

I jumped in my car and drove the few suburbs to his house, meeting him at the front door and heading straight up to his bedroom on the strength of a glance.

We closed the door and slammed into each other, losing clothes periodically between door and bed. We were a force of nature, not quite like either of us had ever been before. In that moment there was no such thing as self-consciousness or insecurity. I felt as if I watched from above as we tumbled onto the mattress and clawed at one another, fingers finding contours we'd not known existed. Lips explored every surface and mouths sighed and gasped for air, desperately supressing moans as backs arched and knees crooked.

That evening we lost our virginities to one another and sprawled in the dark, sheathed in sweat and somehow made whole for a moment. It remains one of the most important experiences of my life thus far.

Mal only lived with his dad, and unlike I'd just boldly done, he wasn't out under his own roof. I'd met his father and he cut an imposing image. He was a lawyer, suited and booted and tall like his son. The few conversations I'd had with him, perfunctory as they were, were none the less intimidating. He didn't talk about it, but I gathered that Mal's relationship with him was a fragile one to say the least.

We were together for another four months, happy with each other if no one else, when I began to notice a wear on Malcolm. An almost imperceptible strain. Hallway and school yard confrontations were becoming more frequent and his bruises more pronounced. I don't know why, probably just luck, but I somehow evaded homophobic jocks for the most part. I think Mal was always just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was around this point that he finally decided to alert his dad to his sexuality too.

It wasn't good.

One night we lay in my bed and my hand slid under his t-shirt, pushing it above his ribs a fair way. He winced and made to pull away, but not fast enough for me not to notice the fierce purple bruise that growled on his lovely tan skin. To me it was as if someone had taken a Stanley knife to a _Rembrandt._ My breath caught and I swatted his hand away as he hastily tried to pull his top back down. My mouth turned to sandpaper and my eyes filled with tears as I looked up at his stricken face, gaping and speechless.

My fingers ghosted over the welt tenderly and he recoiled from my touch, causing me to do the same as I let out a sob. I never thought that I'd meet someone who would cause me to act so sensitively and so outwardly, but now that I had, to see him harmed was like a blade being twisted and I wept.

"Who did this?" I whispered.

He just shook his head, eyes terrifyingly wide. It was such an unfamiliar sight.

"Malcolm! Who hurt you?"

Tears leaked from his eyes as his face grew red, "My dad." He gulped.

A moan wracked me as the complete reality of Mal's home life sank in and I lay next to him, holding him close, completely forgetting the sorry state of his ribs as we openly cried. I'd felt the high of love, and here came the low. I could never have been prepared to feel someone else's pain so acutely.

When we met, Mal had been a crutch for me. He'd lifted me up and supported me as I limped through my youth, and exuded a strength that had been vital to me all those months ago. Bile rose in my throat as it occurred to me that, though he'd not asked, Mal needed help as much as I had. Quite possibly more. His proud, outward homosexuality had blinded me to this from the beginning and, knight in shining armour, he'd continued to shade my eyes. He was far more brave than I, but he was equally vulnerable and equally scared.

I hated myself.

Really, _really_ hated myself.

I wanted to fucking kill his father. Rip him limb from limb. Did other people feel this sort of anger? The intensity of it scared me. A boiling rage that caused me to shake as I clung to him and tried to stop his own grief fuelled convulsions. It became hard to tell where my fury ended and his pain began.

I think I alarmed him just as much as myself. He viewed it as unbearable enough that his father had beaten him, the thought of me behaving in a way that would result in me getting hurt too was beyond. He wouldn't let me go to his house anymore and forbade me from trying. As far as he let me know, the physical abuse ceased, but his increasingly brittle mental state alerted me to continued psychological torment. I urged him to leave, to come live with me and get away from his father's volatile fists. He wouldn't though. He too still felt obliged to stick by his family, even if his family consisted of one poisonous man, determined to wear him down.

I recalled his note to me on the day I came out.

_If they don't accept you they don't deserve you._

It burned that his own words had no effect on him.

I don't know how he stood it. I felt constantly sick at his predicament and I wasn't even the one at risk. He lost weight and withdrew, no longer quite there, proceeding to shut down, recoiling from me. For a couple of months I tried my hardest to make him come back. To become my beautiful saviour again. Eventually I grew just as distant, unable to continue at such an emotionally break neck pace. I was ashamed by my inability to make things better for him. Humiliated that I couldn't deal anymore. I was such a coward.

Our relationship ended rapidly.

I don't like to talk about it. Ever. In fact, I never have done. I will though, eventually. I just hope it's understandable that I need to take my time in doing so.

Those events led to the disintegration of my life at that school. It had become _our_ school. I couldn't be there and not be _with_ him and I needed to get out. My parents noticed this too, more than I expected, and in observing my spiralling despondency hastily enrolled me in the place that would form the next chapter of my life. A prestigious private school where I was to board. They wanted me to be around other boys, you see? Learn to thrive again.

I finally realised why I couldn't ever stop loving my parents completely. They'd come through. Their eyes were open.

It was through their decisions that I came to spend my senior year at Westerville's Dalton Academy.

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><p><em>TBC<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_[A/N One last short bit of backstory before Kurt and co. make an appearance. Their college and the town it's in are fictional as I'm Australian, so no amount of research can do a real location justice._

**_I've bumped this up to M. At the moment it's just for a bit of swearing and hormones, but later chapters will have sex and possible triggers, so might as well make that clear now._**

_I don't own glee, or Blaine. I hope you enjoy.]_

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><p>Dalton was good for me I guess.<p>

The private school environment was such a radical, sudden change that my stricken mind spent most of it's time trying to grasp the ins and outs of an all-boys school rather than dwelling on Malcolm and our… demise.

The dry cleaned white shirts and the broad corridors were glossy on the surface, but clearly worn at closer inspection. Ledges and windows above eye height bore a coat of dust, and plaster and stone edifices were cracked or eroded. Brocade curtains and upholstered chaise, moth-eaten and faded. Dalton was grand, but it was somewhat superficially so, posturing and posing marvellously.

Dalton and I had that in common. You could say we were made for each other.

We also both managed to achieve this façade with a level of charm. I don't want to make it seem like Dalton was decrepit or unpleasant. It wasn't. It was beautiful and old and loved and lived in. It smelt like people and people past. It had a glorious history to it that appealed to me for some reason. So many secrets. So many skeletons in closets. Enough that it felt like mine didn't matter so much. I embraced the unexpected dilution.

Like I said, I didn't ever talk to anyone about Malcolm. I didn't even mention him in passing. When people asked why I transferred, and they always did, I'd feed them a story about how my parents had deemed my last school an unsatisfactory learning environment, shelling out the cash for me to get a 'proper education.' I'd say it sort of disdainfully, managing my audiences reactions with the tone of my voice and the furrow of my brow. I was after their misplaced sympathy, and they never disappointed me. I'd be showered with, 'Man, that sucks,' and, 'I bet you miss your friends,' nodding agreement as I immediately gained my fellow pupils' compassion.

Really, I didn't do this to swindle or to scam. There was no spite in my actions. I just didn't want to have to tell the truth. I wanted to be on friendly terms with these new boys without dredging up the pollution I carried from my old school. I know I lied in order to garner friendship, but I did so in the knowledge that none of them would ever learn the truth. After all, what people don't know can't hurt them, or so I'm told.

Honestly though, the mere thought of having to bring up Malcolm every time someone asked… it was more awful than I could grasp. I found it difficult to even think about him in private, becoming an expert in compartmentalising my woes. Instead of actually facing any stresses and worries and wounds, I'd tuck them away. It sounds ridiculous, but it really became that easy. I would sometimes even symbolise the act by imagining a box in my head. It was cardboard, beige and plain, baring a white label with nothing written on it. From time to time I'd feel anxiety creeping up on me only to force it into that limitless, divine box.

Not only did this stop me from dwelling and brooding, something I was at a dangerously high risk of doing, it became a coping mechanism. I don't know if it's a particularly healthy habit to have; ignoring your problems to the point where they might as well not have existed, but once I'd learnt how to do it I couldn't stop. Besides, I still believe that it was better for me than the alternative. Self-hatred and pining and regret. Three very teenage tendencies that even to my teenage self seemed objectionable. If hiding my aching from everyone else was such a fulltime, demanding task, to wallow in the process would be an even more hellish one.

I made a lot of friends at Dalton. Naturally, I knew more about them than they did about me (actually, for all I know they were burying as many memories as I was, but I assumed otherwise) however I had enough happy, harmless stories from my old school and of my family that no one ever had the chance to twig to it.

It took me a while to grasp the strange new atmosphere though. The Academy was touted as having a 'No Harassment Policy,' but my cynical side assumed that that just meant people were more careful in their prejudices. I figured there would be just as many bigots and bullies as my old school, laying low and maintaining such a level of fear that they could get away with it without the faculty or prefects finding out.

It turned out I was very wrong.

Never before and never since have I been exposed to such a setting. Outside of harmless schoolboy teasing I never once encountered a cruel word. I have no idea how it was maintained, and I sometimes pinch myself in wonder of whether that year really happened, but everyone was actually just kind and jovial. Accepting and good-humoured. God knows how such a thing was possible when four hundred or so boys were forced to share the same space on a daily basis, not to mention those of us who boarded.

I came out as soon as I got to the school. I mean, I didn't exactly go up to people and shout 'I'M GAY,' in their faces, but once I got close to a few people I told them and before I knew it, it was common knowledge. I'd already spent so much of my youth hiding that I wasn't going allow it to happen again. I would be as out and as proud as I was capable of being, and other people could just deal with it if they were offended. In the years since then my approach to being out has changed a little. It's become more honed. I'm as proud as I ever was, but I'm more considered about who I tell and when. At Dalton, once everyone knew I was gay, that was it. I was out. Now that I'm at college, forever meeting new people I'm faced with the prospect every day, and I get drained by it sometimes.

But that was Dalton. My lovely little bubble. Those ancient classrooms nursed me. I didn't go back to who I was, but took parts of that person and added to him. I became outwardly confident, the most important element of my 'surface.' With that one skill I could mould myself to any situation, making myself approachable whilst innocently holding people at a comfortable arm's length from anything that lay deeper.

I joined the Glee club, a considerably better one than my old school's, and spent three afternoons a week in what became my favourite activity. There was nothing like being a part of a whole. I know some people like to stand out, bathe in the limelight and all that, but I really loved being a cog in a larger machine. A well-oiled one. Performing was so enjoyable. The feeling when you're skilled and you know it; it seemed to fill me up. I got the occasional solo, and I did a damn good job of them, but my heart was in the chorus line; switching my brain off and harmonising with a dozen or so incredibly talented boys.

Oh, Yeah. The boys…

I hate the crude assumption that all private schools are automatically gay schools. I think it's lazy and small minded and offensive. That said, I had my fair share of encounters.

There were only a handful of gay guys at Dalton that I knew of. I wasn't even good friends with any of them. I mean, I was acquainted, and on as good terms with them as I was with anyone, but we all moved in different circles. Well, most of the time.

I didn't get into another 'relationship,' but I did hook up a few times, in and outside of Dalton. I even acted as an experiment for a few curious or confused peers. It was fine by me. I was a teenage boy. I may have been heartbroken, but really, I just wanted sex as much as any other testosterone driven 18 year old. I got it once too. A boy called Ben, who also boarded, came back to my room after a totally forbidden, totally fabulous night of on-school-grounds drinking. It was dark and it was clumsy, and if I hadn't been so tipsy it would probably have been embarrassing, but all that's left of it in my mind now is that it felt amazing and that it reminded me that nothing compared to the feeling of rough skin and course hair. It should have been awkward the next time I saw him, but I was becoming so good an actor by that point that I put him at ease in regards to the situation as easily as I did myself.

I left the warm embrace of Dalton knowing I would miss it, and forever thankful for how well it treated me. It may have been bizarrely detached from the real world in some ways, but it cushioned me enough to prepare me to face it. I had so many fortifications, I felt unbreakable. Absurdly, deliberately wary of every new person I met, but unbreakable. It's funny that that's the way I chose to use my sorrow. Instead of becoming emotionally fragile and damaged, I became better at reading people in order to avoid being hurt that way again. By anyone, for any reason. I suppose I am a _bit_ damaged. Very damaged. But my control of how much it affects me is superb.

Regardless of how difficult the classes had been at Dalton, I did well on my SAT's and, with more than a little encouragement from my parents, would go to a nearby university to study Law. I didn't really want to study law, but I had the grades to do so, so that was clearly my calling, right?

Law and I didn't really agree.

Sorry, no. That's putting it far too politely.

I fucking hated law.

I understand the practice has its place and that there are certain people who excel at it, even love it, but I couldn't be further from that personality. The readings were so dry and clinical. It was like every sentence I read was in one ear and out the other, or stuck in a maelstrom in my mind where I'd catch myself reading one dull, incomprehensible sentence over and over, yet learning nothing.

I do think of myself as ambitious. I don't want to seem arrogant, but I'm intelligent too. Unfortunately, my form of ambition is one that is symbiotic with passion. If I don't _feel_ something for what I'm doing, I mean deep down in my gut and my heart, then I find it almost impossible to attach myself to it. I can't pursue something if it doesn't make my blood pump or my eyes burn. I become listless and disinterested and my attention span narrows to non-existent. There was a point when I thought it was just laziness, but when I started doing literature related electives I realised that wasn't right.

I'd enter a tutorial, head fuzzy from talk of _torts _and _subpoenas_ and feel myself relax and unwind as my Introduction to English Lit_._ professor bathed me with his words. Graham Greene and Christopher Isherwood. Dylan Thomas and Evelyn Waugh. Why wasn't I doing this? This made me happy. This was beautiful, fresh spring water compared to the treated, bottled, chlorinated tang of law. Sure, it was somewhat less focussed than law, and I'd probably have a hard time finding a profession out of an art based degree, but either way I'd be ending up in a job I didn't like. If It was between graduating and becoming a lawyer, a thought that made me shudder, or graduating and becoming a civil servant, not much better, why not spend my tertiary education doing something enjoyable before being roped into a dead end career? Who knew, maybe I would end up a Professor at a university, or staff at a National Library.

These may seem like wild dreams, but they were dreams I needed to have. I didn't have any visions attached to a future in law. It was just a black snarl of theory and boredom. How could I possibly force myself to keep going when that was all I had to look forward to?

So I lied.

I told you I was good at it.

I was doing acceptably well in law. I may have hated it, but I hadn't reached a low enough point to want to commit self-sabotage. I spent a year toiling away at it before I approached my parents.

They'd treated me with kids gloves since my ordeal with Malcolm. I saw so little of them while I was at Dalton, and once I got to College and chose to live on campus I didn't see much more. I sometimes spoke to my mother on the phone and I visited them holidays, but no more. I'd become their slightly estranged, slightly dented gay son. They still had an interest in my future, but the fruit of their loins was sadly detached from them. I sure as hell wasn't going to complain about this arrangement. I had a while to adjust to it, and as long as they were paying for my education I would treat them civilly and give them my attention when they requested it.

I'd spent a semester ardently researching several art colleges across the country before I even brought up my proposition. None of the places I looked at were in Ohio. I wanted out of there. One was in Vermont, a couple in New York. I even had a brief interest in one in California, but that didn't last very long. I'd decided that I would attempt to get into any art college I could, and study what I loved. I was going to find out why so many people enjoyed their higher education so much. I would learn what interested me and I would live my life out of the stagnant pattern I'd fallen into in Westerville.

I put to my parents that I was miserable in law. That part was true. The lie was that I was struggling with the classes, I didn't have any friends, I didn't like the campus and I was terribly unhappy. I mean, the campus wasn't anything special, but it was fine, and I was mostly just bored out of my mind. I even had a healthy little gaggle of friends, and spent Thursdays to Fridays drinking, partying, tending hangovers and even hooking up. However, my parents, cautious of my state of mind since already having to transfer schools at an early age, nodded and tutted and furrowed their brows. Actually, my mother did. Dad just kind of crossed his arms and sat back, listening closely.

After a bit of negotiation and haggling they conceded that if I could find a college that would take me, they would pay for my fees and my boarding. My mum said she hoped I'd choose a school nearby, and I felt a small pang of guilt as I assured her I'd try my best.

Vermont isn't that far from Ohio, right?

It's closer than California…

Albarn College, Albarn Vermont. That's where I ended up. Liberal arts. Campus of five hundred. They accepted me right away and I thanked myself for maintaining my solid grades. I would study Literature, with a focus on the twentieth century, mostly British fiction if I had any say in it. It was exactly what I wanted. I even packed my bag with a handful of battered Hardy and Eliot paperbacks to line my dorm's bookcases.

Yes, I am aware that I'm a very specific living cliché for doing so.

I _was_ playing a part after all. Cheery Blaine Anderson. Twinkling eye and sculpted hair. Why shouldn't I try to adhere to my ideal view of college life too?

I arrived in the small town knowing very little about it, and only knowing about the campus what I'd read online, but I was exhilarated. I was sure this was where I was meant to be. Here and nowhere else.

Now all I had to do was discover what 'here' really was.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	3. Chapter 3

_[A/N Welcome to Albarn. Again, I'm not from America, so if I make any errors in seasons or semesters or College stuff, I'd actually love to be corrected :D I've done my best to research it all, but It's still possible I've not got everything right._

_I don't own Glee or any of these characters. Enjoy!]_

* * *

><p>I didn't immediately get to appreciate Albarn's campus. I parked and made straight for admin where they directed me to my course advisor.<p>

He was a real life Ken Doll. Seriously.

Only more chipper.

I'm not kidding. He even had the glossy helmet of set, dusty blonde, wavy hair that looked as if it couldn't be chipped with a chisel. My hair is neat, but his was immaculate.

He was William 'call me Will' Schuester. Late thirties, sporting some textbook smart-yet-casual wear. He was most overly cheerful man I've ever encountered. He couldn't trick me though. I know what it's like to hide. There was a set to his jaw and a faintness to his eyes that told me all was not well in the life of Will. Lucky for him, I wasn't exactly interested in the private life of my course advisor, so I was more than happy to play along.

"I can tell you're going to love it here."

I smiled, "Yeah, I really hope so."

"No, I can just tell. I'm sure."

_Well, if you insist_.

I was just smiling and nodding. We must have looked like a pair of deranged used car salesmen.

"So," he rifled some documents on his desk, "I'm going to double as your first year advisor too. If you have any problems at all, big or small, you come to me. My number's in your welcome packet and I'm on campus just about every day."

He was good. On campus every day? Trouble at home maybe? If that was the case, he didn't even flinch. Maybe I liked this guy.

"Great." I chirped.

Technically I wasn't a first year, having transferred from another institution, but technicalities had no place in my mind at this point. I was a new student, in a new school, in a new town, in a new state. As little as I liked to admit it, I really needed someone to hold my hand. If Will was offering his, then I'd take it for as long as required.

I briefly wondered if it felt as plastic as he looked…

He handed me a map and directed me to my dorm. As far as I knew there were four different living quarters at Albarn, but I would be staying in Grayson House, which he circled in red.

"It shouldn't be too hard to find, but if you have any trouble I'm sure anyone will be able to direct you. Once you get there you have to find the house supervisor. Her name's Rachel; she's the first door to the left on the bottom floor. She'll show you around and get you settled. Just… take her with a grain of salt. She's a little bit… um… fervent, I guess. Sweet girl, but a bit in your face."

"Thanks for the advice."

"My pleasure. Remember, classes start on Monday. Try get some rest before then."

I nodded, "I'll try. Thanks for the help."

"It's what I'm here for." He winked. He actually winked.

I dashed out of the room and hurried outside. Resting was the last thing I wanted to be doing. There was so much to discover in this new world I'd somehow landed in. I looked up from my map and gasped.

I wasn't in Ohio anymore.

The late autumn air was just that little bit too cold for a t-shirt, but it wasn't my bare arms that caused me to break out in goose bumps. Albarn was truly beautiful. All of the buildings were painted white with lovely green shutters flung open on the windows. It was like something out of a colonial picture book.

The commons were a vast stretch of grass, broken up here and there by brown gravel paths like veins. Various varieties of oak and maple were coloured orange and red, poplars towering proudly over them. In the distance I could even see a curiously neat row of apple trees, still laden with late season fruit. The air smelt beautiful. Clean and fragrant. I felt like I was inhaling the green of the grass and the moss of the shingles.

I walked towards Grayson in a sort of blissed out haze. I was experiencing everything with the volume turned up and it was overwhelming in a pleasant kind of way. So much had changed in my life in such a short space of time that I hadn't quite figured out how to cope. I don't think I'd actually thought it would be necessary to cope. I assumed I'd just slowly adapt to my change in scenery as opposed to this sudden, unexpected immersion.

Grayson was the same white and green, sunny early jonquils smiling up at me from the garden beds surrounding it. This was infinitely more lovely than I'd expected. My dorm back in Ohio was... well, let's just say it was squalid. I'd been under the impression that that was just the norm as far as student accommodation went. You know, the bare minimum. Worn and filthy. These dorms looked worn, but just in a lived in kind of way. Like a place that had been lovingly occupied and tended to when required.

I entered, eyes adjusting to the change in lighting, and sought out the room of this 'Rachel.' I'd barely ceased knocking when the door was wrenched open. I actually felt my head drop with my gaze as I took in the girl in front of me. I'm not tall, but she made me feel like a giraffe. I opened my mouth to greet her, but that's as far as I got.

"Blaine Anderson? I'm Rachel Berry." She flung her hand out at me and I shook it automatically, nodding, "Welcome to Grayson house. I'm the house supervisor and I'll be your first point of contact for any enquiries or problems you may have. Please follow me."

She closed her door and marched past me, chattering non-stop. She was wearing a cable knit sweater and ankle boots, pleated skirt twitching playfully as she bounced up a staircase in front of me.

"That said, I have a suggestion box just outside my door. You can't miss it. If you want me to take any suggestions seriously, please sign them legibly. I don't appreciate anonymous criticisms."

"OK, sure." I stuttered.

We stopped outside a door at the end of a well-lit second floor corridor. "This is your room, the kitchen is downstairs and you have a bathroom on this level. Unfortunately our laundry block is separate from this building, but it's only a short walk. Please, come in."

She opened the door and hustled me through, shoving my key in my hand. My room was plain, that same virginal white, with a single bed and large pine desk and chair. There were a few bookshelves, more than enough for my ostentatious paperbacks, and a lamp that looked at least thirty years old. It was actually quite charming. The large window next to my bed let in a great deal of light and it reeked of an Amish kind of simplicity that for some reason appealed to me.

"What do you think?"

I was slightly shocked that she'd finally asked my opinion on something, "It's… I love it."

She smiled broadly and seemed to relax out of her authoritative persona a little, "I know, aren't they cute? I don't know why anyone chooses to live off campus when we have such nice accommodation here."

"Maybe it's so they don't have to deal with you day and night."

We both turned to face the door. Standing, twirling a basketball was a stocky boy with a Mohawk and a smirk.

Rachel bristled, "Shut up, Noah! What are you even doing here?"

He shrugged, "Scoping out a potential friend."

"Maybe he wants friends who have interests in anything other than sport and beer kegs."

"Yeah, and maybe he wants friends who haven't got their broomsticks shoved up their asses."

Rachel's mouth fell open, "Puckerman! Get out!" She strode over to where he was leaning against the door and started trying to push it shut, but their drastic differences in size meant that her effort was futile.

I watched her for a second with an amused look on my face before the boy nodded at me, "Hey, I'm Noah, but if you call me that I'll kick your ass."

I raised an eyebrow, "OK, what do I call you then?"

"Just Puck." He threw the ball at me and I caught it.

"You board here too?"

"Yeah, I'm just down the hall. Poster of Gene Simmons on my door. Can't miss it."

I threw the ball back just as Rachel gave up on her fruitless mission, "Ugh, I hate you."

"Hate you too midget." He said it with no malice and a smile on his face. I figured, as much as these two appeared to rub each other the wrong way, they probably actually got along. He looked at me again, "Hey, I didn't catch your name man."

"Oh, sorry. I'm Blaine." I waved vaguely.

"Awesome." He gestured the bare room, "You got much stuff to move? Need a hand?"

"That'd be great." I beamed.

I was already on good terms with a sarcastic jock and a tiny brunette whose ability to talk non-stop was a force of nature. Pretty good start.

* * *

><p>Puck left me with an invitation to join him and his friends in the canteen block for dinner around seven and I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking my few belongings and making my room feel more familiar.<p>

I opened the window wide, surprised by how silent everything was. There was a slow trickle of students returning for the new semester, but otherwise the campus was pretty empty. I was glad that I'd already forged a couple of tentative friendships. As introspective as I know I am, I never want to come across that way. Every now and then I crave solitude to the point where I'll remove myself from social situations for days on end, but right now that was far from my agenda.

Even so, once getting things in a vague sort of order I lay down on my bed, suddenly feeling my lethargy catch up to my urge to explore. I closed my eyes momentarily and woke up to a near dark room, shivering a little at the breeze that was stirring my open curtains.

My watch told me it was a quarter to seven and I rushed to change my shirt and vaguely order my hair, grabbing the map and pausing to wash my mouth out before hurrying to find the canteen.

It was pretty hard to miss. A glowing glass fishbowl in the falling dark. There were only a few tables of people there and I approached Puck where he sat with four other boys. Two blondes, one thickset, one wiry, an attractive Asian boy and a brunette with a distinctive nose. Puck smiled when he spotted me.

"Hey man, take a seat." He started pointing to the boys one by one, "This is Sam, Jeff, Mike and Nick. They live over in Hoskins House across campus."

I waved to all of them, "Hey, I'm Blaine."

Sam took my hand, "First year?"

"Kind of. I'm a transfer from Ohio."

Jeff piped up, "Seriously? Nick and I are from Ohio too."

"There's tonnes of us here man." Nick nodded.

"Just as desperate to get away from there as me?" I asked.

Jeff shrugged, "Nah, just kind of floated over to Vermont by accident."

Mike laughed, "And by that he means that Albarn was the only place willing to take him."

Jeff punched him in the arm and Mike threw his spoon at him.

"Don't mind them. They aren't too bright." Nick said and a fork flew across the table, hitting him in the neck, "Hey! Try not to kill me, right?"

I wasn't sure how to react to the mayhem in front of me so I just smiled until they settled down.

"So, what are you studying dude?" Sam asked.

"Twentieth Century Literature."

"Seriously?" Jeff wrinkled his nose, "Isn't that kind of, like… boring?"

I shrugged, "It's what I'm interested in."

"Each to their own."

I nodded, "What do you guys do?"

"I'm doing teaching. Secondary education mostly." Puck said, "Mike does dance, like that's a real degree anyway," Mike rolled his eyes at me, "Nick does social sciences, don't ask me what that means, 'cause I don't think he even knows, and Jeff and Sam do music."

"Basically, we're bludgers." Sam grinned.

Nick cut in, "They're bludgers. I study Political Economy."

"What's the Music course like here?" I asked. I'd missed Glee club the past year and I didn't play my guitar nearly as much as I should. Maybe I'd take a music class as an elective.

"Yeah, It's pretty good I guess. It's less intensive than a straight up music school, so it's kind of sweet. It's mainly an excuse to jam with a bit of theory on the side."

"Actually it's a lot of theory." Jeff added, "_Way_ too much theory. D'you play anything?"

"Yeah, I brought my guitar with me from home, but I haven't picked it up for a while."

Jeff slammed his fist on the table, "Dude, you should totally come jam with us some time! I play bass and Sam and Puck play guitar, not to mention our kick ass voices. Oh, and there's this total dumbass called Finn who plays drums with us sometimes."

"I'd love to." I smiled.

I really did want to. I hadn't even given a second thought to taking music up again in coming to Albarn, but once the opportunity was there, I wasn't about to pass it up. We exchanged numbers and pencilled in a vague time to get together in second week.

The five boys I'd somehow landed with weren't like any company I'd ever kept before, but they were friendly and harmless and just seemed to be out to have a good time. At the end of the night, just before Puck and I went to our separate rooms he invited me to a party at a fraternity just a little way off campus the next Friday night.

"It's being thrown by a bunch of guys who Jeff and Sam study with. Should be fun. We're all pitching in for a keg."

It had been a while since I'd been to a party, and I was feeling in the mood to let loose, "Yeah, definitely. I'll be there."

"Awesome." He punched my arm in a friendly manner and we parted ways.

* * *

><p>On Sunday I woke up with that odd feeling of not knowing where you are. I blearily blinked at my ceiling a few times in only mild panic, before remembering I was at Albarn. I peered out the window to another unseasonably gorgeous day, pretty psyched in the knowledge that all of my classes were in order and I could just use the opportunity to roam the campus and get acquainted.<p>

I took my battered copy of Steven King's _The Shining, _a sort of trashy comfort book of mine, and strolled across the commons looking for a nice tree to sit against and read for a while. I found one a short way from a path and my unfocused reading quickly became shameless people watching.

There were noticeably more students present today, obviously moving back into their dorms and getting their curriculum in order. Even if I hadn't been aware I was in an arts college, the high percentage of black clothes, cigarettes and acoustic guitars would have quickly alerted me to it.

People mostly travelled in groups, books wedged under their arms as they laughed. A bunch of skivvy and thick-rimmed glasses wearing Philosophy students sat in a circle a few metres away. I could tell because I overheard the names _Kant _and _Heidegger _at least a dozen times in the space of five minutes.

It was an infinitely different vibe from that of my university in Ohio. There everyone crammed and rushed from place to place out of necessity, whereas here people seemed to dawdle aimlessly, chatting about their subjects out of interest. Sure, a whole lot of them struck me as a little pretentious, but I already knew from meeting Puck and his friends that that wasn't the case of everyone. I don't think I'd have been surprised had I seen someone skipping and singing.

Just as that odd image crossed my mind I actually did hear singing. A couple of girls voices, half guffawing half delivering what sounded like some kind of traditional song. It was quite unreal and I looked around intently to see if I could spot where it was coming from.

I was surprised when I did locate the source that it in fact wasn't two girls, but a girl and a boy. The girl had a sweet blonde bob and a face that was pretty as the sun. She wore a blue sundress and red pumps that stood out in the sincere art student atmosphere, and her arm was linked with that of a gorgeous chestnut haired boy.

He too stood out, but that may have just been to me. He had on a blue pea coat and skinny grey jeans, a black shawl scarf looped around his neck. I couldn't see the colour of his eyes from this distance, but they appeared bright, and his smiling lips were just as red as the girls. Basically he was dazzling. I'm sure I've seen more attractive men, but I was immediately drawn to him for some reason. I watched them until they were out of sight, hoping that I'd spot them again soon.

* * *

><p>I started my classes on Monday, enjoying them well enough. My <em>Late Twentieth Century<em> class assigned us a Kazuo Ishiguro novel which I already knew well and it even turned out that I had Will Schuester for my _Masters of Style_ Class.

It wasn't until Wednesday, when I'd settled myself at the back of my _Satire_ lecture, that I spotted the same chestnut head of hair from the commons, sitting near the front of the class. He wasn't with the blonde girl this time, but was flanked by a dark boy with some of the loveliest skin I'd ever seen, and a Latino girl with legs that even I was impressed by. I didn't even notice that I was craning forwards in my seat until a few people tried to get past me.

The boy was just as stunning as I recalled, but his eyes seemed duller today. It may have just been the artificial light, but it was noticeable.

Throughout the course of the lecture, in which I failed to take many notes and learnt much less about Austen and Dryden than I'm sure my lecturer would have liked, I did learn the boy's name. He was Kurt, and somewhat less important to me, but filed away in my memory nonetheless, his friends were David and Santana. She was obviously a class clown who hadn't managed to shake the habit, even though she'd left high school. Full of barbs and wit whenever the professor asked a question that allowed it. David was more reserved and obviously well read, raising his hand many times. Kurt only spoke once, when the professor addressed him, but he was eloquent and he had the most interesting voice. High and singsong, level and smooth.

I honestly couldn't explain why I was so taken by him, and at this point I think it was just a shallow attraction. A nice body and a pretty face. And it was. David was handsome, Santana was sexy, but Kurt was most definitely pretty. I mean, there was unquestionably some kind of sensuousness there, in the tight jeans and the combed back hair, but his face was radiant like a china doll.

I don't want to make it seem like I thought of him constantly or obsessed over this boy I'd never even spoken to. I still hung out with Puck and the guys and paid attention to my studies, but from time to time he would pass across the front of my brain and I'd smile. He was probably straight anyway. That glowing blonde girl he walked with the first time I saw him was most likely his girlfriend.

He _did_ make me smile though. Unfailingly. I think that's why I couldn't quite shake him. That's why I wanted to know more.

The same Wednesday as the _Satire _class in which I'd learnt his name, I was climbing up to my room after a quick chat with Rachel. I could hear voices in the my corridor and turned the corner, freezing immediately.

There Kurt stood outside the room of a tall, striking, strawberry blonde boy who was leaning against the doorjamb. The blonde was gazing down at him, and as I watched he put his hand on his cheek and bent down, kissing Kurt on the mouth.

I gasped quietly and ducked back around the corner, my mind falling onto two very specific facts.

Oh, so Kurt _was_ gay.

Shit, he's kissing someone.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	4. Chapter 4

_[A/N There's a bit of Blaine's tutorial in this chapter, but it won't be a regular thing. It's just thematically necessary, informed waffle._

_I don't own Glee or any of the texts mentioned in this chapter. Enjoy!] _

* * *

><p>I withdrew a short way down the staircase. Far enough that it wouldn't seem like I was eavesdropping. After a long moment Kurt spoke in that singular voice.<p>

"You taste like shit."

"I taste like smoke." The other boy's voice was deep and currently near to a purr.

"Much of a muchness. Cedric, it's disgusting."

"Everything's relative."

"Well, it'd be nice if you at least didn't do it when I'm around."

"I never know when I'm going to see you."

"If I text you saying 'I'm coming 'round,' that's usually a pretty good indication."

"I'll buy some gum."

"I know you're kidding, but I hope you do."

"I'm not kidding…"

They fell silent. I assumed they were kissing again and I listened closely for any sign of being discovered.

"See you tomorrow?" asked the boy I guessed was called Cedric.

"Sure. I'll call you."

I started walking up the stairs again, as if that was what I'd been doing all along, and Kurt appeared at the top, passing me on his way down and nodding at me politely in acknowledgment. There were no sparks as he brushed by me. No fireworks or heralding horns. Just two boys going their own way, one of them completely unaware of the others curiosity. He did smell pretty sublime though. I don't know what it was. Some cologne I guessed, deep and spiced, and yes, just a small hint of cigarette smoke on his clothes from Cedric's apparent bad habit.

When I reached the top of the stairs Cedric had already retreated to his room. Some people in the dorm chose to decorate their doors with various things. Posters and quotes and little dry erase white-boards on which to write messages, but there was nothing of the sort on his. Nothing to give me any indication as to who he was. Honestly, I wasn't interested in him at all. I was interested in his relationship with Kurt though.

Kurt who I still knew nothing about.

On a whim that surprised even me I stopped as I passed Puck's Gene Simmons plastered door and knocked twice. A second later Puck opened the door, the faint sound of music floating out of his room.

"Hey man. What's up?"

I floundered, but not long enough for him to notice, "Hey. Are we meeting up before the party on Friday?"

"Oh yeah. I totally meant to tell you, we're going to have a couple of drinks over at Hoskins and then head off campus."

I wasn't surprised Puck had forgotten to tell me. He wasn't the most focussed guy I'd ever met, "Awesome. Around six?"

"Yeah, sure. It's going to be great man. Albarn knows how to throw a house party. If it's not going off by the time we get there, we'll soon make it." He grinned wickedly.

"Can't wait." I smiled, finally getting to my real point for stopping by, "Hey, that room," I pointed to Cedric's door, "Who lives there?"

Puck peered at where I was indicating, "Oh, that's Cedric Winton. Studies some kind of literature or something. Right up your alley. Why?"

My mind raced, "Um… I saw someone in the kitchen… they uh, they took a container of food marked with his door number. I thought I should probably let him know." I finished weakly.

Puck snorted, "That's cool man. Risk of using the communal fridge, but whatever. I don't know the guy. He mostly hangs with a bunch of people from McCarthy House."

I nodded. I hadn't met anyone from McCarthy yet, "OK, thanks. Probably catch you tomorrow."

"See you dude."

He closed his door and I just stood there for a moment. What the hell did I do that for? I had absolutely no vested interest in the love life of a stranger. I had a great group of friends already and unless we crossed paths at some point I had no reason to care about Kurt any more than any other student at Albarn.

It was then, dazed and confused by my not so subtle interrogation of Puck, that I decided to let it go. Kurt intrigued me, but I wasn't going to continue behaving in this uncharacteristic, frankly surprising way. He was just one ordinary, albeit eye-catching student among five hundred others.

* * *

><p>The next day I had my <em>Satire <em>tutorial. I walked in, glimpsed Kurt, David and Santana and deliberately sat at a desk three rows in front of them so that there was no chance of me even seeing them again during class.

I know this might seem melodramatic considering all I'd done was watch the guy a bit and ask after the boy I saw him kissing, but for me that was weird. My life and attitude as a whole may have been based on what could be interpreted as an initial, colossal overreaction to the end of a relationship, but that was beside the point. I never overreacted. I was measure and control personified. I couldn't help but be shaken by this odd side Kurt had uncovered.

This lesson we were studying the works of the author Evelyn Waugh. Our tutor, Olivia Renner, a black haired woman in her forties who had a penchant for flowing skirts and beaded necklaces, had my complete attention as she guided the class in discussion.

"Waugh may have been a master of humour and caricature," she was on a roll, "sometimes _harmfully_ two dimensional caricature, but he's just as well known for his representations of the bleaker sides of life; even if they are generally portrayed by upper class individuals. His novel _Vile Bodies_ caught a great deal of criticism for its obviously abrupt change of theme. One minute it's Bright, Young Things, champagne, cigars and race cars and the next it's war and madness and addiction. This became a bit of a pattern for him. Many critics put it down to the end of his marriage, some to his conversion to Catholicism in 1930, and I'm prone to agree with the latter. It's evident in much of his work from then on, notably in what's possibly his best known book, _Brideshead Revisited."_

She paused, taking a sip of water, the silence in the room complete.

"In a 1959 preface of the book, Waugh noted the overall theme as being '_the operation of divine grace on a group of diverse but closely connected characters.'_Something that became obvious in his style was a latent guilt which could be attributed to his religion. Was this that _'divine grace?'_ The two main male characters, Charles and Sebastian, spend the first half of the book in gluttony and sloth, becoming so close that, though Charles is apparently heterosexual, they have a near homosexual relationship. An attraction and a love. Not only does that disintegrate rapidly, but Sebastian ends up living frugally in some Tunisian Monastery! It's as if he's hammering home that there is no sin without punishment. No indulgence without due repentance. At the time of the book's publication it was the source of some confusion and irritation, but it also captured a lot of people's imaginations. Many people with no prior knowledge of Roman Catholic faith became enchanted by it. He'd romanticised it with his words. Nowadays however, when there is so much ambiguity as far as religion is concerned, it tends to disconnect the reader, if not offend. I myself find the sudden changes jarring. Many find it preachy."

She was a wonderful speaker. At the beginning of the tutorial I diligently took notes for later reference, but by this point I just stared at her, head propped on my hand and mouth slightly open as the tune of her voice hypnotized me.

"That said, he had an inarguably beautiful grasp of the English language and a style that was difficult to fault. I wonder if any of you have a favourite passage of his? Preferably from one of his more serious fragments?" She gazed around at the class, blinking magnanimously.

I racked my brain, but found myself unable to conjure anything that I knew well enough to recite. After a moment in which I wondered if anyone would speak up, she pointed to the back of the room, smiling.

"Kurt isn't it?" My stomach fluttered rebelliously when she said his name, "Come up here so we can all hear you."

And there he was, picking his way to the front of the room where he half propped himself against Olivia's desk, facing the class. He had on white jeans and a dusky pink shirt, rolled up to the elbows.

He looked at Olivia, "This is from _Brideshead Revisited_, part three, chapter one. Charles is speaking to Julia, his love interest. She's also Sebastian's sister. Weird love triangle… it's kind of messy."

Olivia laughed, "To put it nicely, yeah. When you're ready."

As he spoke he stared at a point over all of our heads, apparently lost in the words. He didn't hesitate or stumble once.

_'… perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.'_

I sighed without noticing. This was the first time I'd actually been able to see the colour of his eyes properly. They were a kind of steel blue, trimmed with lashes that only served to make them seem wider. Again, I felt they weren't as bright as they appeared on my first sight of him and he looked a little sad as he spoke. They were no less striking for it though. I wondered if it was actual sadness, or affected to match the tone of the quote.

Crap.

It was going to be somewhat harder to ignore him than I'd thought.

* * *

><p>Come Friday evening, and a beautiful autumn dusk, I sat on the commons with Puck and the group of Hoskins boys, drinking my first beer of my life at Albarn. We were sprawled in a haphazard circle, I myself propped on my stomach as we chatted and gossiped and I slowly became more aware of the people and places and goings on of the college.<p>

Jeff, who had been distractedly pulling at the grass, now blew a clutch of the small green spears off his palm, addressing Puck once he'd done so.

"Tell Blaine about your crush."

Puck scowled, "I don't have crushes." He looked at me, "I don't."

I put my hands up in an 'if you say so' kind of way and Jeff continued his jibing.

"Well, tell him about your… whatever."

Puck sat back, "There's this chick, hottest girl in the college – "

Sam cleared his throat, "Says you."

"Yeah, says me. _I _think she's the hottest girl in the college." He moved his hands, I guess in a demonstrative show of her curves, "Just, flawless man. So fine."

I laughed, still not having confided in them my sexual inclination, but not about to make a show of having any actual interest in this girls physique, "What's her name?"

"Santana Lopez." He stretched her name out lecherously.

Now he had my attention, "Really?"

"D'you know her?" Nick asked.

"No, no. She's in my _Satire_ classes."

I neglected to mention the part where she was friends with the confusing object of my affections…

"Oh?" Nick raised an eyebrow, "I always thought she'd be more of the Drama degree type."

I shrugged, "I have no idea what she studies. Is she going to be at the party?"

Puck smirked, "Sure as hell hope so. Only reason I'm going."

"She lives on campus." Mike added, "McCarthy house."

McCarthy house. I assumed that Santana and company were the friends Puck referred to when he said that was Cedric's scene. I squirmed a little at the thought that Kurt might be there.

Jeff grinned, "Anyway, Puck's on a mission tonight. He's never even spoken to her, but he'd like to _get to know her_, if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows comically.

"Make me sound like a massive sleaze why don't you!" He looked at me again, "It's not like that. I haven't been like that since high school, I swear. I just… want to meet her."

"You want to sleep with her." Mike deadpanned.

"I don't!"

"Puck, your dick is your brain."

"Why am I friends with you?"

"Who else would have you?" Sam laughed.

"Screw you!" he pegged an acorn at him.

Nick joined in, throwing one back, "Dude, you just said the only reason your coming tonight is to get friendly with some girl. We should be offended!"

"OK, you guys suck. Like, so much. Blaine, you're my only friend now. These guys can jump off a cliff."

I found myself laughing as they bickered. Their rapid fire, practiced ease was so infectious I couldn't help it. I was glad they were making it easy for me to appear comfortable, because as they spoke I had managed to corral a flock of butterflies in my stomach.

Seriously, what if Kurt was there?

Sam sat up, "Does anyone want another beer?"

"Yes please!" My hand shot up. It was possible I'd be needing a little Dutch courage tonight.

* * *

><p>The party was in a two story clapboard house, with a covered porch that looked like it stretched all the way around. By the time we got there it was already heaving with bodies, blasting music. A pagan beacon in the chill night air, drawing likeminded souls to it.<p>

The minute we got there Nick and Jeff were waylaid by a group of people who called to them, and Sam and Mike struggled through the throng with their keg, I assume trying to find the kitchen. I followed after Puck, at a loss for what else to do, and he stopped at a drinks table in the dim front hall. He grabbed two red plastic cups, filling them with some miscellaneous punch, shoving one in my hand. I was already tipsy, but I took it from him, eyeing the red liquid. There were some dodgy bits of pink stained fruit floating in it.

"It sangria." Puck shouted over the din, "Or some bastardisation. They call it 'Rocket Fuel Sangria'. It's fine I promise."

I took his word, taking a sip and wincing, "Oh my god, that's unholy."

"Beggars can't be choosers." He laughed, "Come on, wingman. There's Santana."

He pointed to the living room, where I saw her standing with a red headed girl I didn't know. She looked like a clone of Rita Hayworth, who'd somehow found herself in a world of high waisted denim shorts, bow blouses and ankle socks.

I trotted after him obediently, coming to a stop in front of the girls.

"How you doing? I'm Puck." He thrust his hand at her.

She lifted an eyebrow, taking his hand gingerly, "Santana. This is Rose," She indicated her friend who waved in a bored way, "and you – " she eyed me, "– are in my _Satire _class with that ex-hippy professor. "

"Yeah, I'm Blaine." I said awkwardly. I'd never been a wingman before, but I had a feeling it was going to be an uncomfortable experience. We were struggling to hear one another over the music and both girls looked wholly disinterested in Puck's brazen advance.

"Having a good night?" Puck asked.

"It's alright." She said shortly, "Could be better."

Poor Puck. She wasn't making this easy for him, but he persisted, "What do you study?"

"I'm majoring in Women's Lit." she droned.

"How about you?" I asked Rose, trying to stick to my duties even if I was burning with embarrassment for my friend.

"Postmodern Poetry."

Puck snorted, "Really? Isn't that kind of out-dated?"

He'd hit a nerve. Rose drew herself up, planting a hand firmly on her hip and glaring at him. Next to her Santana caught my eye and smirked, shaking her head minutely.

Rose took a deep breath, "William Wordsworth said that '_the poet is the rock of defence for human nature_!'

Puck winced, murmuring, "I have no idea who that is."

She continued, "Poetry never stopped being relevant! It's relevance may not have increased throughout the twentieth century, but it most certainly hasn't decreased. Less is written, and what _is_ written is paid far less attention, but that the critic's loss, not poetry's."

I glanced back at Santana. She seemed to be beckoning to someone behind her as her friends tirade persisted.

"Got your thinking cap on, Mohawk?" she tapped her head, "_'Shall I compare thee to a summers day?' 'Oh Captain, My captain?' 'In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn a stately pleasure dome decree?'"_

Puck gaped at her, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine! The Owl and the fucking Pussycat!" she flailed her hands and I couldn't help but stifle a laugh, "Even if you don't know the poets, you certainly know the poems. Don't ever imply that poetry has a use by date!"

She finally halted, chest rising and falling a little, face red as she took a gulp of her drink. Puck looked like he'd been slapped with a text book. I'm sure in coming to flirt with Santana he hadn't bargained on a fiery friend quoting verse at him.

Just then, the person Santana had been gesturing to walked up, an Asian boy in a tweed blazer. He put his arm around Rose' shoulders tentatively. "Everything OK?" he asked cautiously.

She shrugged him off, "Yes, Wes. Everything's fine." She huffed.

"Doesn't sound fine." He put his arm back, and this time she allowed it.

"Well it is. Let's go find the others."

Wes steered her away gently, mouthing 'sorry' to us over his shoulder.

"What the fuck just happened?" Puck asked, "I'm getting another drink man. I haven't had nearly enough to deal with something like that again."

He turned and disappeared in the crowd, leaving me alone with Santana.

"Hey." This time it was her who offered the hand, "Sorry about that. She isn't always that bad." She paused. "Actually, yeah she is…"

I laughed, "And they say passion is dead."

"I know, she's like a poor man's Sylvia Plath. It's be endearing if it wasn't so annoying. Then again, it'd be unbearable if it wasn't so damn funny." She sipped her drink, "She definitely keeps away the unwanted suitors though." She caught herself, "No offence."

I smiled, "None taken. I gather Puck isn't used to getting turned down. It's probably good for him."

"It's Blaine, right?"

"Yep, Blaine Anderson."

"Well, Blaine Anderson," she hooked arms with me, "You've just scored yourself a job. Tonight, you're my boyfriend."

My mouth fell open, "I… I don't… I'm not like…"

"Relax!" She cried, "I just need to look attached so no one else will try to pick me up. I'm so not in the mood. You're just my prop, OK?"

"Thanks." I snorted.

She punched my arm, "I don't mean it like that. You'll be compensated. Think of the new friend you're making even as we speak."

I relaxed, "OK, I'm in, but if it gets to the point where I have to fight for your honour, I have to warn you now that I'll probably run away."

"Pfft. You're assuming I have any honour to defend. Don't worry, you'll be fine." She started pulling me to the back door, "Come on. My friends are all outside."

Some part of me fell into a mild panic when she said that, but I couldn't think why and dismissed it.

We broke into the marginally quieter night air, cigarette smoke hanging heavy, and made for a group of people perched on an assortment of worn outdoor furniture and the wooden planks of the porch. The source of my panic clicked as I quickly recognised two heads of hair, one chestnut, one strawberry blonde.

Kurt and Cedric.

I raised my cup and drained it down to the sodden tinned fruit.

* * *

><p><em>TBC<em>


	5. Chapter 5

_[A/N I realise my Quinn is channelling a little Dianna Agron here..._

_Thank you all so much for your reviews. I actually can't believe it. I'm floored. Any feedback is wonderful, so cheers for feeding that particular addiction of mine._

_I do not own Glee, or any of the characters save my OC's. Enjoy!]_

* * *

><p>Santana put her arm around me and dragged me closer. I had no idea where to look, so I stared at my empty cup.<p>

"Everyone, meet my boyfriend Blaine."

Kurt's eyebrows shot up, "Santana, I know you work fast, but this has to be a record."

"Shut up, it's just for show." She groaned.

He looked at me, and I could feel colour rising in my cheeks, "I'm sure you had a whole lot of say in this too?"

It was at that point that I momentarily forgot how to use the English language. Thankfully Santana continued her rant.

"Whatever, he doesn't mind. Also, while you're all here, if anyone expresses and interest in me tonight, please tell them where they can kindly stick it."

"The lady has such a way with words." Cedric smirked.

Santana pointed at him, scowling, "Seriously Cedric, don't even start with me."

He snorted, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He jammed one in his mouth and lit it, emitting a wealth of smoke that obscured his face. He and Kurt were wedged on a small, faded two seater sofa and currently Kurt made a show of leaning away from him.

"Cedric!" he yelled.

"What?" he inhaled again, "I'm drunk. We're at a party. Can't I smoke?"

Kurt waved at the smoke with his hands, "It's polite to move away."

"How's this?" he asked, stretching the arm with the cigarette as far as his reach allowed.

"Yeah, so much better." He said sarcastically, crossing his arms and looking away.

"You're such an asshole." Santana glared at Cedric.

He just shrugged and blew a plume our direction.

As far as I could tell from my short exposure to her, Santana was the aggressive type. Even so, she seemed to be sending an excess amount of concentrated rage Cedric's way. I may have just been projecting my underlying irrational dislike of him though.

And I did dislike him. It was ridiculous. From my short exposure to him the only fault I'd gleaned was that perhaps he was arrogant, but other than that I had no reason. Just that I'd caught him kissing Kurt. Still, while it may have been unfounded, it wasn't unashamed. If I could help it, I wouldn't show it.

At this point that was a pretty big _if._

Santana loosened her grip on me, "I should probably tell you who everyone is, hey?"

I smiled helplessly, "That would be great."

"OK, you've met Rose, and Professor Tweed here, is Wes."

She was referring to the boy who'd come and dragged Rose away after her diatribe to Puck. They appeared to be attached, both sitting cross legged on the porch, Wes with his arm around her as they spoke intimately.

She continued, "That's David, he's in our class too."

He sat on a beaten up chair next to the girl I'd first spotted Kurt with. Today she had on a peach sundress and cream cardigan, again looking more alive and more vital than most every other haggard student in sight. Santana pointed to her, "And that Little Miss Blondie, is Quinn."

"Hi." She beamed at me, inexplicably filling me with warmth and ease. She was quite gorgeous and she looked like a candy shop. I wanted to be near her, without any clear reason as to why.

I waved, smiling, "Nice to meet you."

"How you doing?" she asked sincerely.

I laughed breathily, "I think I'm a little out of my depth."

"Oh, don't worry. We don't bite."

"I do." Santana added.

"Sorry, most of us don't bite." She pointed at the ground next to her, "Please, sit."

Santana and I both folded ourselves onto the splintered planks as she finished the introductions. She finally indicated the two boys on the sofa. Cedric was whispering in Kurt's ear, and I wrinkled my nose for a second.

"That's Kurt and Cedric. Disgusting aren't they?"

I wondered if she'd caught my look of mild disapproval, or whether she always voiced this opinion.

"They're together," she said, "Obviously. David's gay too, so we're pretty much half way to a pride rally."

"Awesome." I laughed, part of my insides unfurling with hope at the thought of having some people I could potentially confide in, the remainder skulking away at the confirmation of Kurt and Cedric's relationship.

"Rose and Wes are an item too, but when he's not with her, he and Dave are pretty much inseparable. Seriously, you'd think _they_ were the couple."

"Yeah Santana, that's still funny." David drawled.

Quinn stood abruptly, "Does anyone want to dance? I really want to dance."

David looked up at her, "You don't usually bother asking."

"Yeah, but I want to dance with you guys tonight. I always dance by myself."

Santana leaned closer to me, muttering, "She's not kidding. The girl needs to be sedated."

"Please?" Quinn surveyed the group with wide, glistening eyes, already swaying a little.

"Fine." David exhaled, pushing himself to his feet.

I smiled inwardly at the sudden image of him and Quinn crash dancing in the living room. He was wearing a cunningly tailored black coat and grey trousers that looked almost too severe to be allowed. The way they clashed with Quinn's playschool dress-ups was as charming as it was odd. It was no wonder, really that this group of students stood out to me. They evoked an air of the extraordinary. Even of the strange. They were like figures from a _Picasso_ that had somehow found themselves on the stern canvas of a _Constable._ How was it that I was the only person so intrigued by them?

Quinn linked arms with David, "Anyone else?" she sang.

Cedric stood, "If dancing with you involves me getting another drink, I'm in."

"Yeah, me too." Santana said, "I can't sit still right now."

She used my shoulder to haul herself upright, and I stared up at her imploringly, "You're going?"

She patted my head, "I'll be back. You don't mind waiting here? I might need you."

"Um, sure." I stuttered. If Santana had this sort of influence over me, I shuddered to think what she could convince unsuspecting, smitten straight men to do. It was possible Puck had gotten off lightly.

Abruptly, Wes looked up from where he was sitting, "Where are you going, David?"

"Just to dance." He shrugged.

"Oh, OK." He looked like he wanted to go too, but Rose's arms were twining around his middle, making it pretty clear that he was trapped.

"Let's go!" Quinn chirped. I, and I'm sure the others, expected her to enter the house and join the small group of people dancing there, however, she shocked us all by rocketing down the porch steps and into the yard. She disappeared into the dark and Cedric groaned.

"And there she goes…" he turned to Santana and David, "One of you come with me to find her, and one of you, _please_ get me a drink."

"I'm not getting you a damn drink." Santana spat.

"Fine, then come on. David?"

"Yeah, yeah. See you in a sec."

They went their separate ways, leaving me with Wes, Rose and Kurt. The former two were unfortunately preoccupied, and I twirled my cup in my hands.

"Is she on something?" I asked Kurt, nervously.

He shook his head, "No, that's just our Quinnie. She's worse tonight, because she's drinking, but she's just an endless source of renewable energy. Heaven forbid The Pentagon ever get a hold of her."

I laughed and looked down again. I was undeniably excited to be talking to Kurt. I was overjoyed that he even knew my name, but I had no idea how to handle myself. I simply felt like clumsy limbs and cowlicks and unwanted freckles. I was sure that every time I spoke my voice would break, or I'd stumble and stammer.

Whenever _he_ spoke, I found myself alarmed by how much the timbre of his voice effected me. It was so unlike me to be moved thus. To be so engrossed in another person, when for so long I'd endeavoured to remove myself from genuine connections.

I breathed deeply.

"That said," he continued his previous train of thought, "she's also the Queen of mood swings, so it's not like she exclusively uses her powers for good."

"She seems sweet."

"Oh, don't get me wrong. She's the sweetest." He grinned, "Much sweeter than Santana. You're lucky. Very few men get away from her intact, and look at you; her personal chaperone."

_I'm gay._

_I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay._

"Yeah…" I swallowed.

_Way to go Blaine. You tell him._

"You don't have to sit down there." Kurt said, "You can sit up here if you want."

"I'm good!" I blurted loudly, kicking myself immediately after.

His eyes widened a little, "Or not." He drained his cup, pointing to my own, "Want a refill?"

_Yes, yes, god yes._

"Sure." Thankfully my voice was holding, but it was raspy. Dry and uncooperative.

Kurt reached beside himself and produced a flat bottle of vodka from where it was wedged between his thigh and the arm of the sofa.

"C'mere." He beckoned, and I shuffled closer on my knees as he unscrewed the lid deftly, with that distinct scraping sound. Aluminium on glass. An ode to alcoholism.

He poured a large measure of spirit into my cup, much more than I'd anticipated, before giving himself the same treatment. I sat back and took a sip, muffling a cough as the harsh liquid scoured my throat. Kurt pulled a small bottle from inside his coat, tipping a little white pill onto his hand, taking it with his drink. I wanted to ask what it was, but of course I didn't. It was probably just antibiotics.

My mind wandered for a while, dazed by my situation and the alcohol. I was talking to him without paying a great deal of attention to what was being said. I'm pretty sure he inquired after my degree, and I learnt that he was studying Literature and Drama. Eventually I became accustomed to his presence though, coming to.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Westerville, Ohio."

"Oh, I'm from Lima." He said, with little inflection. I thought I saw his face fall.

"You didn't like it?"

His voice turned cold, "There aren't words to express what I think about Lima."

"Oh." It was like a mist had passed in front of him, "Um, where did you go to school?"

"Quinn, Santana and I all went to McKinley High. Do you know it?"

"Mm, yeah. I was…" I paused, tossing up how much credibility I may lose were I to continue, and decided I didn't care, "I was in Glee club at Dalton Academy. We came up against them a few times in competition"

"Really? We probably versed each other then."

"You were in Glee club?"

"I'm just full of surprises."

"Wow. Small world. How did you all end up here?"

"We may study arts, but in the end we're drastically lacking in imagination. We just ended up sticking together. Wes and David are from Ohio too. They went to a boys school. Really, you'd think we all wear signs that say, 'Ohio expat. Let's be friends.'"

"Yeah…"

It seemed mentioning Ohio had been a mistake. He stared into his drink, and I couldn't think of a thing to say, sipping periodically as Wes and Rose continued to whisper next to me, only making me feel more uncomfortable.

"I didn't like Ohio much either." I muttered.

"I hated it." He spat.

And I truly believed him. In those three words I got an impression of some sort of loathing for the place that my own dislike didn't even come close to.

After all, I'd loved Dalton. Not every part of Westerville was tainted. My own wish to leave the place was connected to one boy and a sort of teenage disenchantment. Whatever reason there was for Kurt to hate the place, it was probably considerably less juvenile than my own.

I got the distinct sense that the conversation was over. I felt I'd already made a fool of myself, and Kurt made no attempt to fill the growing silence. He just stared behind me into the house, where it sounded like the party was getting more and more out of hand. I thought I heard Jeff call my name at one point, but he didn't come to rescue me from my awkward predicament.

I gulped the rest of my vodka. It spread through my body and gave me that odd, not unpleasant burning sensation around my heart and stomach.

"More?" Kurt asked, and I jumped.

"Uh huh." I whispered, passing him my cup. At least he was graciously ignoring me.

The two of us just sat there, incredibly out of place in the writhing atmosphere. I don't know about him, but I wasn't thinking about much of anything, replaying our conversation over and over, trying to deduce whether I'd actually done something wrong, or if I'd just innocently hit a certain sore spot.

Fifteen minutes must have passed when Quinn mercifully skipped up the steps, cheeks flushed and hair askew. She crashed onto the arm of the sofa and knocked Kurt on his side.

"Hi again!" she trilled, lying half on top of him.

"Shit, Quinn. Most people wave."

"Most people are boring," she said, dragging herself off him and perching on his lap once he'd straightened up. He mustn't have actually been mad, as he wrapped his arms around her and rested his head on her waist, closing his eyes.

"Where did you lose the others?" he asked.

"Oh, they're coming." She shrugged.

"I want to go home." He said, "Can we go home?"

"Sure," she stroked the side of his head, and laid a quick kiss on his hair. It was an adorable scene. They appeared so close and so comfortable. The way she had immediately altered his hostile mood was miraculous, like a salve.

I turned to see Santana, Cedric and David trudging up the stairs, looking a little bit flustered.

David ran a hand over his hair, "So, it turns out when Quinn said, 'who wants to dance?' she actually meant, 'who wants to chase me around a dark garden while I hide in trees?'"

Cedric added, "And if we'd known that I'm pretty sure we'd all have answered with, 'not me.'"

"Quinn, come here." Santana yelled, "I'm taking your batteries out right now."

She giggled, "No need, I'm done. Kurt and I are going home."

"Already?" Cedric sat next to him, putting a hand on his thigh.

"Yeah, I'm tired." Kurt murmured.

"Can I come back to yours?"

"Not tonight."

"Please?" he wheedled.

"I'm not in the mood, Ced. Not tonight."

"Fine." He stood, with a barely hidden scowl, "I'm going too. You," he pointed at me, "Blaine right? Have I seen you in Grayson?"

"Yeah," I said slowly, "I think we live on the same floor."

"Want to walk back with me?"

The guy was all business, "OK, sure."

"See you guys tomorrow," he addressed the group as a whole. I expected him to say something to Kurt, maybe give him a kiss. Instead he turned and walked back down the steps, waiting for me at the bottom.

I smiled uneasily, "Well, nice to meet you all."

They all murmured goodbyes, Quinn smiling expansively as Santana came up to me.

"Thanks for being my back up." She said, surprising me by kissing me lightly on the cheek, "I hope it wasn't too terrible."

"Not at all." I mumbled, following Cedric.

We walked around the outside of the house, passing a girl who was being sick in a bush while her friend rubbed her back, and only metres away, a couple, somehow finding enough lust in that scene to make out against the fence. I wanted Puck or Sam or one of the others to appear and drag me away.

This was the first time that I'd really been off campus since I arrived at Albarn. I'd not yet had any reason to go into the town. As it was, the house party was only about a ten minute walk from Grayson. I was happy to stroll in silence, surveying my dim surroundings. Unfortunately, it seemed Cedric wasn't.

"What's in there?" he indicated my cup, which for some reason I was still clutching.

"Vodka."

"Do you mind?" he put his hand out.

"No, you can have it."

My skull felt heavy, and I had the most awful taste in my mouth. I wished that the fresh air would make me feel better, but it just made my head swim. Even as I inhaled, Cedric pulled out his cigarettes, and I closed my eyes for a second, walking blindly.

When I looked across at him he was drawing deeply. The glowing end cracked and popped a little, and the whiff of smoke that I got as it wafted lazily my way was both acrid and sweet. Clove cigarettes. He was much taller than me, and had an _Abercrombie and Fitch _catalogue kind of face. Honeyed skin and undeniably handsome in a black V-neck sweater. I wondered what he studied, and half hoped it was something like Philosophy or Performing Arts, just to complete his clichéd image.

I coughed faintly, "Do Quinn and Kurt live together?"

"Yeah," he exhaled, "They rent a furnished house off campus."

"How long have you been dating?" I ventured.

He snorted, "I think we're what you'd call an 'on again, off again' couple."

"Oh."

"We've known each other for a year though." He finished the vodka and rested the red cup on a letter box as we passed it, "Kurt can be temperamental. I think he's dumped me about five times now."

I didn't want to hear this. I could see the lights of our dorm now, and my prayers for him to keep quiet until we got there were kindly answered.

We stepped into the fluorescent lights and my stomach lurched as we walked up the stairs and a buzzing filled my ears.

I left him at his door with an incoherent, 'see you 'round,' and fell into my room. I didn't turn on the lights, and my window was open, leaving the room cold. I sipped from a bottle of water on my desk, and collapsed face first onto my bed, shoes and all.

I felt like shit.

I felt inadequate, and I thought I was going to be sick, both from the vodka and from the illusion that seemed to have fallen down around my ears. It wasn't as if Kurt was even that rude to me. It's not like I'd been shunned or ridiculed. In fact, as a whole they were all exceedingly kind to me. Kinder than they had any need to be. Yet for some reason it stung. I hadn't been prepared to feel that way.

At some point I fell into a heavy, spirit driven sleep, my face flattened against my blanket and a searching draft washing over me.

* * *

><p><em>[AN I hope it won't take me too long to get the next chapter up, but my brain is being a dick. I know exactly what I want to write, but I can't seem to get it out right. For example, I rewrote this like three times before I was happy with it, and 'happy' is used tentatively. Argh! There is a chance I will spend a week writing gratuitous lemons and drinking red wine to see if it cures me. Who doesn't love a good lemon? _

_In the mean time, everyone should check out the awesome new Klaine fic website called **Scarves & Coffee**. It's run by a bunch of humble Klaine fans, and it's quite fabulous._

_Also, I'm going to do another 'shameless promotion of Klaine fics I think everyone should read.' Two Teacher!Klaine stories by the talented **MonochromaticSongbird**, the first called **Who Taught You How To Use Your Hands?**, told from Blaine's point of view, and the sequel, **The One Who Knows Your Name**, from Kurt's point of view of the same events. She really has the most divine style, so I urge you to check them out if you have time!_

_x]_


	6. Chapter 6

_[A/N I can't apologise enough for how long this took. I feel kind of awful about it, but if it's any consolation it probably would have been drivel had I written it when I wanted to. Stupid writers block. Thank you all for your patience though!_

_I also have to extend endless thanks to the wonderful _**Kyrakahn **_who was my beta for this chapter, and saved this from being a sleep deprived mess of apostrophes and dropped words. Also, for listening to my endless prattling quite patiently and just being brilliant all round. I recommend her Klaine fic _**No Matter What They Tell Us **_to anyone who's not read it. It's amazing!_

_I don't own Glee, and I hope you enjoy.]_

* * *

><p>I woke late in the exact same position I'd passed out in, cold and stiff. My knees ached, my head pounded, and my mouth was so dry, my tongue had seemed to have glued itself to my palette. It felt heavy and swollen and unfamiliar, like I'd swapped it with someone else's during the night.<p>

I felt no better for the sleep. I was possibly still drunk.

Over my year at college in Ohio, going to parties and drinking to excess, I found my body moves in stages when hung-over. First, I'm as useful as a corpse, all nausea and sweats. Then, though my stomach remains a little unsettled, I get thirsty. Mostly for soft drinks. Anything fizzy, anything cold. Then thirdly, and most bizarrely, I go into a sort of hysterical haze where I giggle a lot and talk non-stop about every thought that crosses my mind. I like the third stage. It sounds strange, but I kind of wish I could be that person all the time. So flippant and euphoric and a little bit thoughtless and detached.

However, at the moment I was unfortunately at the thirsty stage. I suppose I could at least be thankful that I'd dozed through the worst of the queasiness.

Hooray for small amnesties.

It took me a long time to convince myself to haul my body out of bed and over to the beckoning bottle of water on my desk. It then took even longer, and a lot of deep breaths, to recover from the large volume I unwisely skulled in about ten seconds flat.

Five minutes later and I was naked and under a shower, yearning for more water pressure and more heat. As lovely as Grayson is, it's a sad fact that limitless hot water and five star facilities are never going to be the norm on any campus. Shared bathrooms are the one thing that will regrettably always prevent me from being able to see a dorm room quite like a 'home.'

Regardless, the water felt beautifully cleansing. Thick steam replacing alcohol fumes, and soap scrubbing grease and impurities. I let it wash over me, grazing my eyes when I blinked and filling my mouth when I breathed, gathering in the hollows and contours of my frame, to be washed away two seconds later by a fresh, pure onslaught.

I suppose the one benefit of being so overwhelmed by how physically awful I felt, was that it made it a whole lot harder to focus on how wrung-out I felt mentally. I clung to that and cleared my heavy mind.

When I stumbled out of the stall, rubbing my hair with a towel and another around my waist, it was to Puck standing at the sink, brushing his teeth. He didn't look a whole lot better than me, black rings under his dull eyes.

"Hey." I waved.

He glanced up, then back to his reflection, spitting his toothpaste out a moment later.

"Hey, man." he didn't look back at me.

"Have fun last night?" I asked.

"It was pretty good."

"Sorry I didn't see you guys again."

"No problem."

He was being uncharacteristically short with me, and I scoured my mind to remember if I'd done anything stupid the night before. I concluded that it was unlikely. He left me with Santana and we definitely didn't cross paths again.

He started combing his fingers through his Mohawk, still not meeting my eye, and I grabbed my toiletries bag, making for the door.

He finally turned to me, "Have a good time with Santana?"

I stopped, "Yeah, she's a pretty nice girl." I said cautiously.

"I saw her kiss you as you were leaving last night."

Oh,_ just_ what I needed.

"Yeah, on the cheek," I shrugged, "As a goodbye."

"Pretty chummy considering you only just met her."

"What? I dunno, I think she's just kind of forward."

He looked down, "Are you going to see her again?"

"Well, she's in a couple of my classes…"

"I mean _see _her." I think he was aiming for detached interest.

"It's not like that, Puck."

"No, dude. It's cool. She's totally hot, and bros before hoes only stretches so far when it's a chick like that."

"No, seriously –" I was getting flustered.

"She wasn't interested in me anyway – "

" – stop talking – "

" – I think you should just go for it, man. Just – "

"Stop Puck! Right now, just _stop_. You've got it so, so wrong." I was waving my hands, the horrified expression on my face echoed four times in the mirrors behind him.

He cocked his head and sighed, "We're friends, man. You can tell me."

"Look in my eyes," I pointed to them, "I solemnly swear I have absolutely no interest in Santana Lopez. Romantically or physically."

"Yeah, whatever."

"_No interest!"_

He turned around, still watching me in my reflection, "Sure."

I sort of groaned through my teeth, closing my eyes. This conversation was probably going to happen sooner or later. Why not make it sooner? I ground my forehead with my palm, taking a deep breath.

"Puck, I'm gay."

He spun back, "Huh?"

"I'm gay. Like, super gay. I like guys, and only guys, and I don't want to hook up with Santana."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So chill out."

"Um, sorry?" he scratched his head.

"It's OK," I exhaled, "You didn't know."

"Why didn't you say? I mean, like, before?"

I shrugged, "I kind of like to know if it's worth it before I tell someone that sort of thing. You know…? Personal… and all that…"

He just blinked at me.

"It's not a problem, is it?" I started to feel a little unsure. The last thing I needed was a vengeful homophobe who felt tricked into friendship by an apparent closet gay.

"What?" he started, "No! No way. That's like, archaic shit. I'm totally OK with the gays!"

His eyes were so wide and he spoke so fast, I had to struggle not to laugh.

"Cool." I smiled.

"_So_ cool. More than cool. Just really, really – "

"Puck, relax."

"Shit, sorry."

I shook my head, "Don't be." I paused, "Hey, I don't want you to take this the wrong way or anything, but can you try not to spread it around? I kind of like to be the one to tell people."

"Yeah, yeah. Your secret's safe with me, man."

"OK," I nodded, taking a step toward the door.

"Hey, you want to come have lunch with us?" he asked, "The Hoskins guys and I have this hangover meal tradition. Tonnes of grease, fat and coffee. Meet in half an hour in the cafeteria?"

I groaned, "Yes, yes, god yes. I need like, five litres of Coke in my body about five minutes ago."

* * *

><p>An hour and a half later and I was walking across the commons with my guitar strapped to my back, having eaten as much toast and egg as my fragile stomach could cope with, and spending lunch being regaled by one too many stories of Jeff's successful party hook ups.<p>

I felt slightly better than I did when I woke, almost losing my cool at the smell of bacon, but managing to recover without incident. I felt like I was mercifully nearing the end of the second stage of my hangover, yet I still clutched my third cold, sweating can of Coke, sipping sporadically.

The guys had invited me to jam with them after we'd eaten, across campus in one of the few music rehearsal rooms. I was itching with anticipation as I entered the building, excited at finally having a reason to pick up an instrument again, and hoping pretty severely that the experience would rekindle what used to be a passionate love of mine.

Guitar really had been more than a hobby for me. I would endlessly write songs, whether for friends, or family, or pleasure, or release. I used to absently pick at the strings while watching TV until my mother would give up on asking nicely and hiss at me to _'stop that!'._ When I was a kid, my dad had always called my talent 'The Knack.' An ability to take up just about any musical instrument and have a vague handle on it within ten minutes. I suppose I was lucky, and I'm still unsure why my desire to play died away.

Maybe I just didn't have anything worth writing about.

Or maybe I was hurt when I discovered that as a form of expression, even music has its limits.

I wandered down a few corridors, eventually finding the right room by following the looming sound of voices. I entered to find Puck, Sam, and Jeff draped on various items of standard issue academic institution furniture. The room was kind of small, lined with cork and blue carpet to soundproof. There was a drum in one corner and an upright piano against another wall, plus a bass and two guitars that I assumed belonged to the guys.

They stopped talking when I walked in, Jeff standing.

"Blaine!"

"Hey."

He pointed to my guitar, still on my back, "I know you brought your axe, but you don't happen to know how to play the skins, do you?"

I grinned, "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Oh my god!" he clapped me on the shoulder, "Would you mind?"

"Not at all." any instrument was better than none, "I still feel kind of rough though, so if my head splits open, I may have to stop."

"You and me both, man."

"And me." Sam groaned, raising his hand.

"Alright," Jeff handed me some drumsticks, "Take a seat, my man."

We played until my cloudy head was pounding in protest, but nothing in the world could have urged me to stop. It was that feeling again. That Glee Club feeling. Even a Dalton feeling. The action of performing as an accessory to a greater entity. Four guys strumming strings and hitting wood on acrylic and metal, communicating with their eyes and their hands. It was exactly what I needed to take my mind off Kurt and Cedric and the terminally awkward party.

Puck, Sam and I took turns singing depending on whose voice suited each song most appropriately, even harmonising occasionally, and we rounded off an hour with an incredibly ridiculous, messy, _perfect_ cover of _A_ _Song for the Deaf_, by Queens of the Stone Age.

I slammed my drumstick into the crash cymbal one more time and threw my head back, only realising I was laughing as the sound filled my ringing ears. The exertion of playing the drums had washed most of my seediness away, and I could feel the inexplicable ecstatic stage of my hangover looming.

"Yes!" Puck yelled, "That was awesome! Josh Homme knows how to write a song!"

"Right?" Sam slung him a high five, "I would seriously consider hanging up my heterosexuality for that man."

Jeff smirked, "So you like your men big and ginger?"

"Don't pretend he's not a god!"

"Whatever!"

Sam turned to me, "Come on Blaine, help me out here."

My head snapped up and my eyes sought out Puck, who was chewing his lip, looking mildly guilty.

"Oh, what the fuck?" I groaned, "I left you alone with them for like five minutes and you told them!"

"I'm sorry, man."

"I asked you not to tell anyone!"

"We're your friends," he opened his hands in supplication, "They don't care. Seriously."

"That's not the point."

"I know. Shit, shit, I'm sorry."

"It's fine." I resisted the urge to grind my teeth.

Or peg my drumsticks at his big mouth.

"We really don't care though." Sam said quietly.

"Yeah man," Jeff grinned, "You're still the Blaine we met."

"Thanks," I sighed, "That's… sweet of you. Just… I wanted to tell you myself."

"It's cool. We get it."

"Great," I pinched my nose, "But… keep it to yourselves this time. This stays with you three."

"What about Nick and Mike?" Puck asked.

"OK, fine! You can tell them too, but from now on that's it. It's my… secret. Mine to tell."

I hated calling it a 'secret.' I could think of no better term for it, but there's something in the very nature of that word that indicates the shady and the shameful, and my homosexuality was neither. It was just nobody's damn business unless I wanted it to be. I suppose on those terms it really wasn't a bad thing at all that the guys knew. I was probably lucky that they'd not chosen to take offence to my decision not to tell them.

"I won't tell anyone else," Puck's eyes drilled into me, "I promise."

"I believe you."

"Yeah, and if he does, we'll kick his ass." Jeff laughed.

They left shortly after that assurance, and I chose to stay and reacquaint myself with my battered acoustic guitar. I just cradled it for a while, remembering chords to familiar songs in fits and starts and singing quietly.

"You have a lovely voice."

I jumped and almost broke my neck turning to the open door. Kurt was standing there, a hand resting on the doorframe and his head slightly cocked.

"Thanks." I breathed, standing, a little dazed at his appearance. Actually, I was just a little dazed in general. It seemed I'd unquestionably reached the third trimester of my hangover.

"I'm surprised I don't remember you from Glee competitions," he walked into the room and lifted the lid on the piano, grazing his fingers across the keys.

"It was a long time ago," I shrugged, "I… I didn't really stand out back then, anyway."

He laughed softly, "If standing out is the main catalyst for recollection, then you'd definitely recognise me."

I shook my head, at a loss for words.

He began tinkling on the piano keys, playing a snatch of what may have been something by _Chopin_. The sleeves of his powder blue shirt were rolled up, and I couldn't take my eyes off his forearms. They were kind of thick, opposing the femininity of his face. It was an unexpectedly charming contrast. Something so solid juxtaposed next to something so slight.

He fumbled a couple of notes in a row, "Ugh, I used to be so good at this."

"How did you know I was here?" I asked.

He turned, shutting the piano and leaning back on it, "Quinn and I were having a picnic on the commons with Rose. I saw you with your guitar and kind of guessed."

"Sounds nice," I whispered.

"Mm. I sometimes wonder if they both think they're actually characters from _Sense and Sensibility _or some other Austen novel."

"Quinn could be," I grinned, "A younger sister of one of the protagonists."

The corner of his mouth twitched up, "That's what I thought."

I swallowed, "Why… why did you find me?"

He sighed, "I was rude last night. I wanted to apologise. Even if I hadn't wanted to, Quinn would have made me."

"Oh."

"But, I do want to. So… can we go for a walk?" he gestured to the door.

"Yeah," I nodded, a little shocked, "Yeah, sure. Just give me a sec."

I packed up my guitar and followed him out of the building and into the fresh air, which in my current state smelt marvellous.

"Have you seen the apple orchard?" Kurt asked.

"Only from a distance."

"Come on," he started towards it, "The first dean made the groundskeepers plant it when the college opened. Some of the trees are ancient."

Even if he hadn't told me, I'd have picked up on their age myself. As we got closer I could see their thick gnarled trunks, scarred from unkind pruning and a few lovers' names. We passed a conspicuous quince tree and Kurt reached out and plucked an unaccountably late season fruit, which clung tenaciously to the tree. He began turning the fuzzy, misshapen sphere in his hands.

"So, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I said, my stomach twisting a little, "I feel like I might have upset you."

He looked up, "That's my fault, not yours. You couldn't have known about... about Ohio. About how much I hate it."

"I'm still responsible."

"Blaine, you're not, OK?" his voice was sharp, "I was awful to you for no reason. It's something I do, and I usually don't regret it, but you were nothing but friendly and I was a complete pig. The blame's on me."

"Um, then thank you, I guess."

"I was just having a weird night. I wasn't really… myself," he breathed, "Plus Cedric was pissing me off and I was drunk and blah, blah, blah. They're all just excuses really."

The mention of Cedric piqued my curiosity and my foggy, nearly blissful state of mind fuelled my trepidation.

"Are you and Cedric… OK?"

He puffed his cheeks out, dragging his thumb over the quince, "We only ever seem to be 'OK.' It's a pretty depressing category for a relationship to be in."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."

"No, don't worry. Thanks for asking."

"Did he do something wrong?"

He looked at me sidelong, "Why do you assume he's the villain?"

"Oh, no," I stammered, "I don't, it's just – "

"Shh, I'm kidding," he chuckled a little, "Neither of us is innocent. I'm much better at hiding it though," he paused, "Most of the time, that is. People just look at Ced and immediately think, 'what a prick.' I know I did when I met him."

I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying that I did too. He was being very open with me, but asshole or not, I doubt he'd have taken kindly to me insulting his boyfriend.

"So he hasn't done anything in particular?"

"Why are you so interested?" he asked, looking me directly in the eye, his face unreadable.

"I just…" my mind flailed for a legitimate explanation, "No reason."

I blamed the vodka for that gem of an answer.

His eyes narrowed for a second before he started tossing the fruit in the air, "Well, no. He just kind of is how he is. He has a wandering eye too. Flirts like a maniac. I'm not the jealous type, but he does push it a bit."

"How so?"

"He's a serial… well, I was going to say 'womaniser,' but that's hardly appropriate in this situation, is it?"

"He's a… a man-iser?"

Kurt smiled at me, crinkling his eyes in a manner that took my breath away, "I'm sure we wouldn't have to comb a dictionary for too long to find a better term than that, but basically, yeah. He usually doesn't cheat though."

"Usually?"

"I've dumped him for it before."

"He did mention that." I said quietly.

"Did he now?"

"Yeah…"

"Bastard."

I couldn't tell if he meant that maliciously or just as a throwaway insult, but I had to work to hide the smile that was boorishly fighting to get on my face.

"Anyway, fuck Cedric, and screw me for taking him back time and time again. Right now I'm extending a whole damn olive tree to you, and begging that you take it."

I laughed, "I'd have forgiven you for just a branch."

"Then you're a better man than me."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

"Also, Quinn and I are having a dinner tomorrow night at our place, and we'd really like you to come."

I beamed, "I'd love to!"

_I would really, really, really, genuinely love to._

"Great," he dug in his pocket for a second, a rattling sound coming from inside, before withdrawing a slightly crumpled piece of paper, scrawled with black ink, "Here's our address, and the number of our land line if you have any trouble finding the house. Come 'round at seven?"

"Thank you. Sure." I only allowed myself a second to be disappointed that it wasn't his mobile number.

We stopped and he threw the quince on the ground, where it rolled away down a small decline, now completely devoid of all the white fluff that had previously adorned it. We both watched it for a moment.

"You know, back in Ancient Greece brides used to eat quince before entering their husband's chamber to make their breath smell nice."

"Really?" I said, a little surprised by this outburst.

"Yeah," he looked up, smiling, "I guess there's a lot to be said for Tic Tacs."

I snorted loudly, and brought a hand up to cover my mouth, a little embarrassed, but still laughing.

His smile broadened, and he started walking away backwards, "So, we'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Definitely." I called after him.

"Good," he yelled, "Santana was very taken with you. I think she'd have killed me if I'd scared you off for good."

Fantastic.

The last thing I needed was another guy thinking I wanted to sleep with Santana fucking Lopez.

* * *

><p><em>[AN Thanks for reading, and a pre-emptive thank you to any of you lovely people who choose to review, alert or favourite. It really does make me stupidly happy every time._

_I hope to have the next chapter up by Monday at the latest._

_Bron x]_


	7. Chapter 7

_[A/N Oh my god, this is late. I'm so sorry. I have never EVER had a harder time writing ANYTHING than I did writing this (and I study philosophy, which might as well be a foreign language...)_

_So, please forgive me, and please enjoy. This chapter's slightly longer, so hopefully that goes some way to compensating._

_Again, endless thanks to _**Kyrakhan **_who beta'd this and gave me many amazing suggestions that got me as close to getting my head around this as I was ever likely to._

_I don't own Glee! If I did there would probably be a hiatus every two weeks, and we would all cry and freak out!] _

* * *

><p>Having Kurt voluntarily come to apologise to me removed an uneasiness that could have quickly swollen and pressed heavily on my heart and mind. The only other possible outcome my imagination could muster would have been that I would fret over him for a week, two weeks, a month, only to eventually get over him and be left with a dull feeling of regret or bitterness that I would probably always associate with Albarn. That really wasn't something that I wanted to deal with. I didn't want my fresh start to so quickly become burdened with sour memories.<p>

Instead, I now hummed with a sort of anticipation. I was incapable of putting my finger on exactly what this feeling was in relation to, or even what I was expectant of, but it was without a doubt connected to Kurt.

Since I'd first noticed him I'd found myself wanting to know more. It was just that inexplicable magnetism at first, but now I was self-aware and self-consciously seeking. It hadn't been through any endeavour of my own that I'd ended up closer to him, so by some mangled equation I told myself that it was perfectly alright for me to finally give into the curiosity I'd been fighting. After all, Kurt and I were now acquaintances. Maybe soon we'd be friends.

I would bravely allow myself to pursue that goal as much as I truly wanted to.

If I'm honest, it terrified me. My habit is to build walls around my emotions as a pre-emptive strike against disappointment or harm, and it had been years since they'd been lowered. Been years since I'd endeavoured to get close to someone. Since I'd allowed them to get close to me. I'd always felt it was with good reason too. If not to protect my own interests, then to save anyone else from my slightly sad, slightly detached self. Last time I'd done so it had been for Malcolm, and now it was for Kurt.

Always for a boy.

Difference being that I'd known Mal a whole lot better than I knew Kurt. I'd fallen in love with him and helplessly allowed my internal fortifications to crumble. Back in high school I'd really had no idea of what injuries would end up being inflicted by doing so. I'd not known just how indelible a mark would be left by our relationship ending. It was already obvious that Kurt may be a little volatile in his affections, and the fallout from that could prove devastating to me. Yet here I was, willing to dismantle those barriers again.

I possibly would have felt more at ease doing so if I could put my finger on why he was so enthralling to me. Yes, he was intriguing. Yes, he was definitely gorgeous. He appeared intelligent and witty and shrewd, however he wasn't the first boy I'd met with those traits and he almost certainly wouldn't be the last.

I think what got to me was that I saw something in him that was very familiar to me. An unidentified, hidden side which gnawed at me.

So as justification I kept telling myself that to ignore him would also wound. Without a shred of doubt. This boy was making me feel in ways I'd almost forgotten existed. It felt like waking up.

For some reason, I felt this boy had the potential to make me happy.

I didn't have any plans for the Sunday of the dinner at Kurt and Quinn's house, so headed out onto the commons to sit in the sun and catch up on some readings for my classes in the coming week. My focus was somewhat divided between the text and my excitement, and every couple of paragraphs my mind would wander as I basked against a thick tree trunk. At one point I spotted Wes and David walking leisurely in the distance, but they were headed in the opposite direction to me, I assumed to the cafeteria for lunch.

After about an hour, and a trip to a vending machine for a lemonade, a pair of impressive tan legs appeared next to me, and I looked up as Santana lowered herself to the ground, lounging in front of me.

"Hello again." I smiled.

"We have a bit of a situation." She said.

"Um, OK?" I had a feeling I knew where this was going.

"Everyone thinks I want to get down and dirty with you."

I laughed at the matter of fact way she said it, "I've been having the same problem."

"Problem?" she lifted an eyebrow.

"Not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know," she smirked, "I'm just messing with you."

"So… you don't want to sleep with me?"

"Should I?" she looked me up and down.

"Wow…"

She grabbed my drink and took a sip, "It actually wasn't a rhetorical question. But no, I don't."

I relaxed, "OK, good. Also, no. There's no particular reason why you should want to have sex with me. You aren't missing out." I'd had some odd conversations in my life, but this one was probably taking the cake as the strangest.

"Cool." Her eyes flooded with warmth, "Anyway, no offence. I mean you're pretty smokin' and all, but you're not really my type."

"That makes me feel kind of better for saying you aren't mine either."

"I'm everyone's type." She grinned.

"Not quite."

"Oh, Blaine, you're brave."

"Or stupid."

"Yeah, I was getting that." She laughed.

"Thanks." I mock pouted.

"Joking!" she punched me playfully on the knee, "You're lucky though, I almost dragged the whole thing out for the fun of it. Fortunately for you, I got bored."

"After two days? Great attention span you've got there."

"You don't know the half of it." She handed my lemonade back.

"So, nobody's pursuing here? Totally platonic?"

"Totally."

I sighed in relief, "Great."

She shifted a little, "I hear you're coming to dinner tonight?"

"Yeah, Kurt invited me yesterday."

"Not Quinn?" she sounded surprised.

"Nope, it was definitely Kurt."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing really. I mean, Quinn's such a doll she'd probably invite Charles Manson around for cocktails, but Kurt's usually a little less willing to throw open his doors, if you know what I mean."

I managed to keep a straight face, though I was secretly rejoicing, "Oh. Well, I'm honoured I guess."

"So you should be, honey." She stood, "Tonight you're dining with the elite."

"Modest too."

"Look at me, Blaine." She started walking away, deliberately swinging her hips, "You don't get an ego like mine without a reason."

"Again, not my type!" I called.

"Keep telling yourself that!"

"See you tonight." I laughed.

"Bye, babe."

So far all evidence suggested that even if things didn't pan out with Kurt, Santana could prove to be a valuable friend in Albarn.

If nothing else, I'd certainly be amused.

* * *

><p>Kurt and Quinn's house was a narrow two story building, painted a fading blue with narrow stairs leading to the front door on the first floor. It was half enigmatic, half dilapidated but all in all the end result was rather cute.<p>

I knocked a couple of times and the door was flung open by Quinn, glowing as ever, a dainty little apron tied around her waist that it would have been a crime to splash food on.

"Come in!" she cried, and pulled me into a hug, "Come in, come in!"

I put an arm around her, slightly stunned by just how warm a welcome she was offering me. Her feathery hair tickled my cheek and she smelt like cooking and the kind of perfume you'd catch on a grandmother who'd worn the same scent since the thirties.

"Thank you so much for inviting me." I said once I'd been released.

"Oh, the more the merrier."

"I brought wine," I lifted the bag it was in, "I didn't know what we were eating, so I brought red and white…"

She gasped like a kid on Christmas morning, "That's sweet! We really aren't picky, but it's the thought that counts, isn't it?"

I sort of shrugged, grinning like a dim Labrador as she grabbed my arm and pulled me down a short hall and into the dining room. Wes sat on a worn mustard yellow sofa that could only have been a product of the seventies, and Kurt and Santana stood near him. I immediately noted the distinct absence of Cedric.

"Blaine's here!" Quinn chirped, turning to me, "I have to go help David in the kitchen, but make yourself at home. Kurt! Take his coat!"

Like that, she was gone, through a door to the left of the room.

I giggled, feeling vicariously out of breath, and waved, "Hi."

"Glad you could make it," Kurt slung my coat over his arm and handed the wine to Santana, "How are you?"

"Pretty good."

"I love your cardigan." He briefly rubbed the collar between his thumb and forefinger.

He barely touched me, but I imagined I could feel his skin through the fabric of my t-shirt, burning in a pleasant way.

"Oh, thanks. You look great too."

I felt my face colouring as soon as I'd said it, however, Kurt just popped his foot back jauntily, with a little cascading laugh and a half curtsy. It was the most childlike thing I'd ever seen him do, so sweet it pierced me to the heart. I don't think there had been a single occasion when I hadn't felt just a little underdressed around Kurt, so the compliment seemed to me a significant one. I don't know what possessed me to so blatantly praise him back though. I suppose it was a perfect example of the way he was working his way under my skin. I was always on my back foot around him. Mildly muddled and baffled. Hopefully it was something I'd be able to adjust to.

Santana handed a glass of wine to me, "You look like a robust red kind of guy." She purred.

"I am, but I'm not sure what that means…" I took a sip.

"Santana's like a sexual innuendo scout." Wes said, "She can do it to anything. Unfortunately you'll get used to it."

Kurt reappeared, "Which is why we were under the impression she had a thing for you, and vice versa." He smiled at me, "Sorry about that. I feel kind of bad for assuming."

"No harm done."

"It should probably bother me more that my friends think I'm a harlot." Santana smirked.

"Shh, we don't." Kurt dismissed, "Do you want to sit down?" he pointed next to Wes, "I just have to make a phone call."

I sat as he left, gazing around at the room, decorated almost exclusively in second hand furniture and fittings, a large stained wooden dining table taking pride of place, a vase of some pink dried flowers in the centre.

Santana sighed, "Three guesses who he's calling."

"Cedric, Cedric, and Cedric." Wes chanted.

"Uh huh. For like, the millionth time."

"Is he coming tonight?" I asked cautiously.

"With any luck, no."

"_Santana_!" Wes hissed, then addressed me, "He's supposed to be here already. I think Kurt's a little upset."

"He should be pissed off." Santana growled.

"It's not that black and white, and you know it."

"Look, I don't care how pretty he is, or how good he is in the sack, Kurt deserves better than that jumped up manikin. I'd have told him to take a hike months ago if I was him. I mean, for good."

"Well you're not him, and we don't know the whole story, so stop it."

"The whole story? Cedric's a dick head. End of story. I don't know how you can be so diplomatic and impartial about everything!"

"I'm not, I'm just sensible. It's none of my business. Or yours."

"Whatever."

Throughout this exchange I stared into my wine, feeling mildly uncomfortable. I knew little of Kurt and Cedric's situation, though given the opportunity knew I would immediately take Santana's stance, without cause or reason. Even so, and even with my curiosity, I couldn't help but agree with Wes' pragmatic opinion on whether it was our place to discuss it.

Just as the silence in the room threatened to become awkward, Quinn's voice echoed from the kitchen.

"Santana, can you come here? I need your hands."

"Ugh." She put her glass on the dining table, "Here we go. She thinks she's Martha Stewart. Wish me luck."

"Good luck." Wes turned to me, eyes full of sympathy, "I'm really sorry about that."

I laughed, "Everyone just keeps apologising to me."

"I'm - " he caught himself, " - I almost said 'I'm sorry' again… I know how weird it must be coming into something like this. We've all known each other for ages, it's probably a bit awkward for you."

"No, it's not! Seriously, I'm kind of touched by how inviting you're all being."

"Nah," he smiled, "It's nothing. I was sort of preoccupied the other night, but Quinn, Kurt and Santana gave me a shining report on you. They're usually pretty solid judges of character." He paused, "Well, Santana less so, but I won't hold that against you."

"I really like her." I admitted, "She's kind of hilarious."

"She is, yeah." He grinned, "I don't know why I said that. She's actually got her head screwed on more than just about everybody I know. She's got her eccentricities like everyone else, but there's something kind of nice about having someone around who tells it how it is."

"Right?" I nodded ardently.

"I'm glad you get her. A lot of people write her off as a bitch, but it's mostly for show."

"She's been nothing but civil to me. Or maybe civil and blunt."

He laughed, "I think you just summed up Santana in two words."

I squirmed where I sat as it occurred to me I knew almost nothing about Wes.

"Um… where's Rose?" I asked.

He exhaled, "We had a fight this morning."

"Oh. Was it serious?"

"No, not too serious. I was supposed to have lunch with her today, but I blew her off. Something important came up… she got mad and drove to her mum's house."

"Shit."

"She doesn't live far away. About forty-five minutes from here, in the country. She'll be back tomorrow. It's no big deal."

"Well… I hope it works out."

I thought back to lunchtime, when I'd been sitting on the commons. I could have sworn I'd seen Wes with David. I suppose there wasn't anything to indicate that David wasn't _something important_. I didn't know anything about him either. I could understand why Rose would take offence if he was simply standing her up to have lunch with his best friend. The little I knew of him, Wes appeared to me the kind of solid guy who'd be nothing but doting in a relationship. The idea of him upsetting Rose without an explanation didn't immediately strike me as being in his nature. That was probably a naïve and simplistic view of their predicament, but I wasn't about to start jumping to conclusions. For all I knew, Wes was intentionally keeping Rose in the dark, and with good reason. Like Wes said, I had stumbled in on a lot of established relationships.

Kurt wandered back in, biting his bottom lip.

"Any luck?" Wes asked.

He shook his head.

"He's probably just running late." Wes offered, "I'm sure he'll turn up."

He mumbled something under his breath as he refilled his glass, and I thought I heard, "… better not…" before he turned back to us.

"Stay single Blaine." He muttered, "Things you can't imagine ever being complicated suddenly get that way when you're attached."

I said, "I know," before I could stop myself, and I thought he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, Kurt…" Wes, sighed sadly.

"Oh, _Wes_." He said, "You seem to be having the same problems."

"It was just a little spat! I'm fine! We're fine!"

"I know." He flapped his free hand, "I'm sorry. I'm projecting my bitterness. I'll shut up."

Santana, David and Quinn entered, toting bowls and plates.

"We have Pasta, we have salad and we have bread." Quinn sang.

I stood and David put down the bread board and formally offered his hand to me, "Hi. Good to see you in a more sober setting."

I shook it, "Tell me about it. Did you make all of this?"

"Quinn helped." He smiled modestly.

"I'm just the kitchen hand." She slid an arm around his waist and squeezed.

"It's nothing special," he added, "I actually enjoy cooking."

"It's more than I could manage." I said.

"It's nothing…" he repeated, possibly even blushing.

Where Santana was brash and sharp, and Wes was proper yet friendly, David had a sort of correctness to him. He seemed reserved and knowingly so, but not in an impolite way. Blend Quinn's boundless fervour and Kurt's wit and mystique in that mix, and they really were an odd group, yet somehow perfect. It was as if their broad personality traits had sought out every colour in the spectrum of human behaviour and filled it accordingly, complimenting and playing off each other seamlessly. I resisted pondering where I could possibly fit in that arrangement.

"I just have to get water glasses." Quinn spun and re-entered the kitchen.

"Let me help." I called, feeling the need to pull my weight and trailing after her.

The kitchen was fabulously dated, linoleum and Formica complimenting the medley of mismatched furniture in what I'd seen of the rest of the house. Quinn stood at the sink filling two jugs.

"The glasses are in that last cupboard up there." She indicated.

I started pulling them out, very few of them matching, and gazed around inquisitively. The microwave was on the bench in front of me, and on top of it, next to a shopping list and a jar of pens, was a little prescription pill bottle similar to, if not the same as the one Kurt had produced from his coat pocket at the party. I discerned the name _Mr_ _K. Hummel _on the label as Quinn appeared at my elbow.

"Can you handle all of those?" she asked.

I jumped, stacking the glasses with a twinge of guilt, "Yeah, I've got them. Thanks."

I followed her out and placed the glasses in the centre of the table.

"Sit down guys," Quinn ordered, "Food's getting cold."

I pulled out the chair next to David as Wes tugged gently on my sleeve.

"Um… can I sit there?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, yeah. Sure."

He smiled weakly at me, and I noted the only other free chairs were on Kurt's left. I settled next to him, bumping his elbow with my own accidentally, and shuffling further away from him to compensate. It was unlikely I'd be able to handle conversation if I was constantly making contact with him too.

Wes handed me the salad bowl, and we all start dishing food onto our own plates.

"Want some of this?" I asked Kurt.

"Yes please." He smiled at me.

I repressed a sigh at the sight, "No problem."

"How are you liking Albarn, Blaine?" David asked politely.

I laughed, "Honestly, the only things I've seen are the college, a frat house and this place, but I love it so far. I don't know if I'm prepared for the cold though."

"You get good at layering." Santana deadpanned.

"We should take you out for lunch or a movie or something." Kurt suggested, "Show you around a bit."

"That'd be amazing." I beamed.

Quinn leant forward, "Kurt said he caught you playing guitar yesterday?"

"Yeah." I grinned bashfully, "I'm out of practice though."

"He can sing too." Kurt added.

"You hardly heard me!"

"Trust me, you can sing."

_Oh, you…_ I thought.

"The rest of us were all in Glee club in high school as well." Wes said.

"I think this calls for a karaoke night," Quinn chirped enthusiastically, "Or our own Glee club!"

Santana snorted, "That doesn't sound lame at all…"

"It doesn't!"

Kurt patted her hand, "Honey, it sort of does."

"Fine. I'll just wait until Christmas and then you'll all be forced to carol with me."

"God, save us." Santana groaned.

"Yeah, I don't think even he could stop her." Kurt rested his head on Quinn's shoulder briefly, "Don't worry. I'll sing with you."

"It's cute that you thought you had a choice in the matter." She pecked his forehead.

There was a banging on the front door, and we all turned to it, Kurt sitting somewhat straighter at my side.

"Hm." Quinn stood, "I'll get it. Keep eating."

No one did, everyone but Kurt still giving their attention to whoever was at the door. He was glowering at his plate, moving a sodden piece of lettuce around in a sea of pasta sauce with his fork. After a moment of unintelligible murmuring Quinn returned, catching Kurt's eye before taking her seat as Cedric appeared in the doorway.

"Well, hello gang." He purred.

"Hey Ced." David said carefully, Wes waving briefly next to him.

He tottered into the room, scarf hanging haphazardly from his neck, and squeezed between Kurt and I, towering over him and gripping the back of his chair with one hand. He grasped Kurt's chin and pulled him into a kiss. I could smell alcohol on him, sweet and thick and nauseating. Kurt stiffened and put his hands on his chest, pushing him away.

"Stop!"

"Why? I missed you."

"You _missed _me? Are you drunk?"

"Maybe." He scowled, "So?"

"If you missed me so much, you might want to check your phone. You've missed me at least twelve times in the past hour!"

He waved a hand, "I had it on silent."

"Where were you?"

"Nowhere important."

"But more important than here."

"I'm_ here_ now."

"And you're late, and you're wasted. Why are you drunk?"

"Because I've been drinking." He said matter-of-factly.

"It's like talking to a child." Santana said under her breath, earning a glare from Cedric.

"Who were you with?" Kurt asked sharply.

"No one." He dismissed.

"Really?"

I leant away from Cedric, feeling crowded and overwhelmed. He seemed to only just notice me, blinking blearily and looking confused.

"What's he doing here?"

"I invited him." Kurt snarled.

"Why?"

I blinked, caught off guard and struck dumb.

"Cedric, don't." Quinn said.

"What is wrong with you?" Santana yelled, "He's sitting right there."

"Can't he speak for himself?"

She stood up, "OK, shut the hell up! What, are you jealous? Like you have any right – "

"Santana..." Kurt said quietly.

"No. Honey, I don't care who he is, Blaine's a guest here. He actually _deigned_ to show up, unlike your piece of shit boyfriend, who's now drunkenly insulting him."

Cedric glared at her, "Is there a reason why you hate me so much?"

"Oh, do you want a list?"

"Yeah, come on."

"Stop!" Kurt screamed, "Stop it! Both of you!" he pointed at Cedric, "You, get out!"

"_Out_ out?" he sneered.

"Anywhere, just away from me!"

He straightened up, backing away, "I'll be in the bedroom, then." He sneered, "Enjoy the rest of your dinner. Good to see you all. Especially _you_, Blaine."

We were all silent but for Kurt's heavy breathing. Santana lowered herself into her seat, hands in fists on the table.

"Are you OK Kurt?" David asked.

"Yeah I'm just… I just need…" he stood slowly.

Quinn grabbed his hand, "Kurt…"

"I'm fine." He said quietly, "I just need a moment."

He walked into the kitchen. I bit my tongue, a sudden hot, sick feeling in my stomach.

"Blaine…" Wes said, "Blaine, he's like that with everyone. Or at least when he drinks. Don't… don't let it get to you."

"Why does that make it OK?" Santana growled.

"I doesn't," David sighed, "Quinn, do you think you should go see if he's alright?"

"I'll go." I stood.

"It'd probably be better if I did." Quinn looked up at me, eyes wide.

"No… I feel responsible." I said automatically.

"Well don't," Santana said, "I'm sure he'd have managed to upset him even if you weren't here."

"It's OK." I smiled weakly.

Kurt had his back to the door, hunched over with one hand on the bench and another bracing his side. He was standing in an awkward way that I'd not seen on him before. Previously his posture had always been nothing but impeccable, but now he looked defeated. Almost in pain.

"Hey," I said, "I'm sorry."

He glanced around. His face was flushed and his voice was thick when he spoke.

"It's not your fault."

"I'm still sorry."

"It's a waste of energy."

I swallowed and took a step closer, "Can I do anything? Do you need anything?"

"No."

"I – "

He turned to me, face screwed up like he was fighting back tears, though he'd have been damned if he let me see a single one.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

"Pardon?"

"What are you doing Blaine? You met me two days ago and you're acting like you can help. Like you can change _anything_. You've seen me get dirt kicked in my face by my boyfriend. So what?"

"It's not like that."

"It's just like that!" he yelled, "You don't know me, you've just shared some embarrassment with me. You can't _do_ anything."

He reached out and grabbed the bottle of pills from the microwave, turning his back again and struggling with the cap. I could think of absolutely nothing to say that wouldn't exacerbate the situation or make either one of us feel worse, so I walked out, hearing a quiet sob as I re-entered the dining room.

It was like I'd been punched in the stomach.

I felt like Kurt was miles ahead of me and I was lagging further and further behind, incapable of keeping up with him. I kept pumping my legs harder and he kept fading into the distance every time I thought I grew closer. Every time I thought I might be able to get a grip on him.

The scene at the dining table was sombre and mute. Wes had his face in his hands, Santana still looked irate and Quinn was staring at me with a gaze of infinite sadness and empathy.

I walked up to her, squeezing her shoulder gently, "I'm going to go." I croaked, nodding at David, "The food was lovely. Thank you. I'll probably see you guys at school."

"Oh, Blaine." Quinn whispered.

"It's OK. Don't apologise." I couldn't take one more 'sorry.'

"I'll call you." She added as I grabbed my coat and stepped outside, breathing in sharply at the cold contrast.

I was already on the footpath when I heard their front door slam.

"Blaine, wait!" Santana was hurrying down the stairs, feet bare.

I stopped, turning to her wearily, "I just want to go home."

"In a minute." She dismissed me, "Just hear me out."

Eventually I nodded once, exhaling.

"Wes is right. Cedric isn't worth losing sleep over."

"I figured."

"Kurt is though."

I blinked, "Huh?"

"Don't write him off." She said firmly, "He's just in a shit situation."

"Which isn't getting any better?" I droned.

"That doesn't make him a bad guy."

We stared at each other, the weak light from the street lamp washing out Santana's skin and leaving her looking ghostlike. Almost ethereal.

After a pause I said, "What are you getting at?"

She looked to the stars briefly, letting out what may have been a noise of frustration, "Oh, god…"

"Santana?" I said severely.

Her head snapped back down, "You're gay, aren't you?"

I opened my mouth, momentarily lost for words, "How did you…?"

"Don't worry, no one told me." She said in a voice warmer than I'd ever heard on her, "I want to make a joke that I knew the instant you said I wasn't your type, but that's bullshit. After the show in there, it's just kind of obvious."

I was shaken, "I thought I was subtle…"

"Are you kidding me? Breathy giggles and longing stares over your side plate?" she snorted "You flirt like a girl by the way."

I ran an unsteady hand through my hair, "Have the others noticed?"

"Not that I know of. You weren't like, crazy obvious. It's the kind of thing I'm just wired to pick up on. Those guys aren't quite as 'sex crazed' as I am." She made scornful quotation marks with her fingers, "Anyway, they all probably just thought you were being sweet."

"What do I do?" I whispered, surprising myself. I'm usually so self-contained that it was bizarre for me to ask anyone for advice.

"Do you want Kurt to know?"

"No!" I said, louder than I intended.

She put her hands up, "OK, then I won't tell him. Relax."

"Don't tell the others either."

"Hey, I don't know why you want to keep this from them, but I _do_ know when to keep my mouth shut."

I buried my face in my hands and groaned.

"You do want Kurt though? Like, _want_ him."

I peered through my fingers, "You're making it sound a whole lot simpler than it is in my head."

"Well, you either do or you don't."

"_He has a boyfriend!_" I hissed.

"Do they look that steady to you? Personally, I'm praying that Kurt sends Cedric on his way by the end of the month." She cocked her head, "I might even make a shrine to it. Feel free to join me."

"You can't know that though."

"Well, I've got to have _some_ hope that Kurt'll come to his senses eventually. The alternative's just too depressing. So, do you like him?" she probed.

I closed my eyes, giving in, "I think I really do."

"OK, easy. We can work with that." She smiled, "Also, you should come back in. Quinn's in a state. Kurt and Cedric probably won't reappear unless Kurt murders him. Fingers crossed."

I furrowed my brow, "Santana, do you think I'm leaving because I have somewhere I need to be?"

She shrugged, "I think you're leaving because Cedric's an asshole and Kurt's complicated."

"_Complicated_."

"Trust me, it's the best word for him."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Look Blaine, I'm nosey and I'm pushy, but even I know when it's not my place to intervene."

"So what? I just tread on eggshells whenever I'm around him and get used to him biting my head off and treating me like shit whenever he gets in a mood? And what the hell are those pills?"

"No, either you stick around and get to know him as well as I do, or you get over him!" she said forcefully, "And I can't tell you that either. That's Kurt's business."

"Shit!" I yelled.

"Well?"

"How badly am I going to get hurt if I keep going after him?"

She laughed derisively, "Oh, I'm sorry. Isn't this easy enough for you? Are you used to everyone just falling for your doe eyes and your coy smiles without a second thought?"

"_What?_"

"How much does he even know about you Blaine?"

"I…" It was a valid question. Nothing. No one knew anything about me. I was always very careful to make that the case.

She nodded, "Yeah, that's right. How 'bout you quit whining for a second and let yourself trust him, then _maybe_ he'll see it in his heart to do the same for you. Or is that a tad too logical for your liking?"

"Santana, just…" It felt so foreign confiding in someone, but I forced myself to keep talking, "If he takes a swing every time Cedric gets him riled up… I don't think that's something I can handle." I felt a mild panic creeping in, "I'm not the most… I suppose… _healthy_ minded person myself… I mean… It's a very, very long time since I've committed myself to… well, to anyone. Even if he doesn't hurt me there's a pretty good chance I could end up hurting him."

"Look…" her eyes softened, "He needs us around to help, even if he won't admit it. If I can do anything to change things for him, I sure as hell will, and if I'm really lucky it'll involve maiming Cedric. In any case, I'm guessing you've got some serious history that's making you act this way, and I don't need to know what that is… but, Blaine, don't throw this away just because you're scared you'll cut each other down. That's the worst possible way to live… that's just me though" She looked down, "Understand? If you think he's worth it, then he probably is. Not everyone has that."

"It's not such a bad way to live." I murmured, looking at my feet.

"Maybe you've just gotten used to it." She shrugged.

I half smiled, reaching out and putting my hand on her arm, "I'm not going to come back in… but that doesn't mean I'm giving up…" I felt a sudden need to remove the possible risk of making a liar of myself, "… I don't think."

"Yeah, OK. Well, I think my feet are going to fall off." She hopped a little bit, her soles making a soft padding sound on the pavement, "I… um… I hope you feel better."

"Me too. Can I call you?"

"You fucking better." I handed her my phone, and she punched her number in, slipping it back in my coat pocket and pulling me into a hug. I let myself fall into her, wanting her to take away any fraction of the tension I harboured, "Night Blaine."

"Yeah," I murmured into her warm neck, "Night."

I watched her until she'd re-entered the house before turning and walking slowly back towards campus.

My thoughts were a riot.

I had two very clear options, and wondered if I was closer to figuring out which to track. Either follow Santana's advice and open myself to the possibility of seriously pursuing Kurt, regardless of whether it ended in success or failure, or abandon any allusion of interest. Now that she knew I liked him it was as if whatever choice I made held a certain degree of weight.

As if once I decided, there was no turning back.

* * *

><p><em>[AN Dun dun duuuuuuuuun!_

_Let me just say, Klaine is endgame. Forever and ever._

_Thanks for reading!]_


	8. Chapter 8

_[A/N This is so late and I feel so awful. I got a cold which turned into tonsillitis and wouldn't leave me alone for two weeks. All my time was spent studying, working, feeling like crap and snoozing. I'm endlessly sorry though.  
><em>

_So, thank you all so much for sticking with this up until this point. I know it's been pretty Klaine-light, but I promise the Klaine-iness is about to start in earnest. This chapter was supposed to end at a later point in the story, but it was getting super long and I've cut it in half. Subsequently, it may seem like it ends kind of suddenly, but the upshot is that the next chapter is already three-quarters written. It's also the longest chapter yet and it almost made my head explode figuring it out. Hopefully it's fine.  
><em>

_I was thinking, if anyone wants it I can write some short chapter summaries and post them on my Tumblr. It's been so long that I thought I could provide it for anyone who needed a refresher. I'm __**ohmygodstopit(dot)tumblr(dot)com**__. Just message me you want them and I'll write them up._

_P.S. How wonderful is it to have new Glee? I need more canon Blaintana like I need air._

_Oh! And radiate some love to my patient and priceless beta, **Kyrakahn**, without whom I'd be a mess.  
><em>

_I don't own Glee, I don't own Blaine, and I'm pretty sure no one gives a rats about my original characters, 'cause let's face it, they're all kind of assholes.]_

* * *

><p>I avoided speaking to or seeing Santana or Kurt in the days that followed, and through some divine mercy I escaped any awkward encounters with Cedric in Grayson house's corridors. While at the time I'd felt a sense of relief in opening up to Santana, in hindsight, after a night of fitful, broken sleep and far too much opportunity to reflect, the thought made me unaccountably anxious. Enough so that I felt the need to creep back from her and take a breath. For the first time in about four years there was someone out there who knew more about me than I did about them. Santana Lopez, with her exasperatingly practical insight.<p>

Surprisingly sage Santana.

She really was the last person I ever would have expected to make me question my long practiced standards and principles, yet headstrong as I am, all the things she'd said to me about Kurt were difficult to sensibly refute. My resolve had gone from conviction to uncertainty a handful of times in the space of a day and a dinner party, and now it hung in suspended animation for my review.

There were many facts in favour of abandoning my preoccupation in Kurt. Cedric had obligingly ensured that I had reason to dislike him, but he was still Kurt's boyfriend. Kurt hadn't dumped him, and as certain as Santana was of their relationships imminent expiry, I had no guarantee that Kurt would be a bachelor any time soon. I don't think any amount of infatuation could ever convince me to make an adulterer of someone, even if Cedric didn't seem to have the same qualms. On top of that, relationships are generally difficult enough without the addition of a scorned boyfriend.

A boyfriend who was probably a foot taller and weighed at least thirty-five pounds more than me.

Even the presumption that Kurt would have any romantic interest in me if he was single gave me an unusual feeling. As if I was straining at my ego. I've always dodged arrogance, even in private. I have no problem with pride and I see no error in self-worth (though I'll admit I'm sometimes slightly lacking in the latter) but I asked myself if it was immodest, even vain, to assume I'd have a chance with Kurt.

For the sake of my sanity I concluded that what I was experiencing wasn't over-confidence, but hope. Hope was innocent. Hope was honest. There was absolutely nothing wrong with hope.

I was equally discouraged by the possibility of failure. There's a reason poets, authors and filmmakers have such a monopoly on unrequited love. It's one of those central cogs making the world turn and turn. In my life I'd witnessed it in dozens of disappointed, pining friends. The way it causes fixation and distraction. What I was feeling wasn't love, no, but the symptoms were the same, and as consuming as they were, they weren't unpleasant. I'd enjoyed watching Kurt from afar and I couldn't deny that I'd also relished the few times we'd conversed, irrespective of disaster. If I were to get close to Kurt and alert him to my interests only to be met with rejection, I'd no longer even be able to sensibly entertain the _fantasy_ of being with him. I couldn't help but think that that would be a terrible loss.

Oddly, my main argument for not backing off was a slightly double edged one. Not long after I'd transferred to Dalton I'd quite consciously come to the decision that from then on, no matter how I lived my life it would be a life without regret. For some reason I'd been under the impression that it was at the root of all of my unhappiness.

At some point in high school I remember learning that the word 'regret' came from a Latin term, meaning 'to cry out again.' I can't even recall if it was something I was told, or whether I'd read it somewhere, but it always stuck with me. That knowledge gave the word a sort of horrific quality. Instead of the simple definition, 'to express sorrow at loss,' regret took on a life of its own. It evolved in my mind and morphed into something far less basic and far more dreadful. Up until Dalton I'd experienced more than my fair share of that particular emotion, but after Malcolm and I parted ways I concluded that while in some sense it was human nature to regret, it wasn't something you were _made_ to feel, but something you _allowed_ yourself to feel. Something you permitted, or even subjected yourself to. A penance.

It was a resolution I'd made with the hope that it would reduce any limits I set for myself. If I removed that variable then the world was my oyster, right?

Unfortunately, it turned out that abandoning regret wasn't in my makeup, and instead of leaving me without fear of failure, as I'd intended, it stopped me from undergoing anything if I thought it might hold the chance of guilt. The other downside was a sometimes heightened sense of remorse whenever I inevitably did fuck up. Hindsight became a curse.

So, would I experience that overwhelming regret it if I went after Kurt? Inexplicable pills, mood swings, boyfriend, and all? No. I really didn't think so.

And if I didn't pursue him? Without a doubt. Not only would I be forced to wallow in my choice not to, but I wouldn't be able to escape Kurt for as long as I stayed at Albarn. He'd be in my lectures and tutorials. He'd be strolling across the commons outside my window. For all I knew he'd be down the hall in Cedric's bed.

Surely I couldn't help but regret that.

* * *

><p>Returning from dinner on Tuesday night, I'd barely made it past the first step up to my room when I heard Rachel, Grayson's house supervisor, calling me.<p>

"Blaine!"

I popped my head back around the corner to see her standing at her door, clutching a post-it.

"Hi." I smiled.

She bustled over to me and shoved the note in my hand, "You've had two missed calls on the house phone today. A Santana, and a Quinn."

"Thanks…" Of course, I hadn't given them my mobile number. I looked down at the little yellow square, on which was scribbled Quinn's name and number, "Did they leave any messages?"

"Only that they'd both like to hear from you." She sniffed theatrically, "The Santana girl called me a _chipmunk_."

I repressed a grin, "I'm sorry Rachel. She can be kind of… colourful, sometimes."

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, "That's not really the word I'd have chosen, but thank you anyway."

She turned and re-entered her room, and I continued to my own, instinctively speeding up as I passed Cedric's door.

I sat on my bed and turned Quinn's phone number in my hand. I checked the contacts in my cell and noted that it was the same number Kurt had given me for their land line. I really wanted to talk to Quinn. From what Santana had told me, she'd been upset by the events of the dinner party, and for some reason I was troubled by the idea of Quinn in any state other than the chirpy one I'd come to know. A part of me also assumed that that same cheery voice would go some way to soothing my nerves. Even so, I was far too concerned about the chance of Kurt answering to brave calling her.

Instead I took a deep breath and entered Santana's number, pressing the phone hard to my ear and counting every ring, half hoping she wouldn't pick up. I'd told her I would call her, but it was no fault of mine if she wasn't available when I did.

"Hello?"

Dammit.

"Hi, Santana? It's Blaine."

"Ugh, finally." She huffed, "Are you always this hard to get a hold of?"

"Only when I want to be."

"Huh. Honesty's a virtue I guess." She said "For some reason I like you, so I'll let you off this time."

I relaxed a little at those words. Whatever Santana's intentions it was probably safe to assume that she at least _thought_ she had my best interests at heart.

"How've you been?" She asked.

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, Santana."

"Hmm, there I was picturing you sitting alone in a candlelit garret somewhere overanalysing everything."

After slightly too long of a pause I said, "No. Totally fine."

"My mistake." She droned.

"Are we ever going to talk about you, or are you just going to sit on my shoulder and whisper in my ear?" I asked. Our fledgling friendship was beginning to feel a little one sided.

"Yeah, eventually." She dismissed, "Right now you're far more interesting."

I rolled my eyes, "So, what have I missed?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

I sighed, "Not much. Just been avoiding a couple of girls who seem to want to take me under their wings."

"Oh, really?" she snorted, "There I was thinking you were avoiding a certain erratic boy that you were head over heels for."

"I'm not 'head over heels' for anyone!" I lied.

"Sure." She said patiently.

We were silent for a moment before I asked, "How is he?"

"So, so." She said, "He's been quiet."

I didn't say anything, my stomach twisting briefly.

"He's still with Cedric if that's what you were wondering." She said coldly.

I groaned, "Tell me, is there some special reason Kurt forgives him every time he acts up?"

"I dunno. Maybe he has a huge dick."

"I didn't need to know that!" I yelped.

"Just speculation."

"Is Kurt really that shallow? 'Cause he doesn't seem that way to me."

Santana laughed, "Honey, that's because you've got a prescription for a massive pair of rose tinted glasses."

I furrowed my brow. Was it possible I'd read him wrong? "So, he is shallow?"

"No." She said warmly, "He isn't. I honestly don't know why he takes him back. Just one more reason to _talk_ to him."

"Hmm." I hummed evasively .

"Uh huh." She said, "And as for Kurt 'forgiving' him, I'm pretty sure he never truly does. Somewhere out there is a merit board with Ced's name, and I bet Kurt's added a whole mess of black marks next to it." She coughed, "Which is why you should sidle in and sweep him off his feet."

I clenched my teeth, "Santana, don't."

"What? Not overthink this?" She asked.

"I'm not a knight in shining armour, OK?"

"Maybe, but as far as I can tell you seem like a steady guy. Do you think I'd be helping you if I didn't?"

I'd have pegged Santana as more perceptive than that. "Are you judging a book by its cover?" I laughed.

"What, straight-laced and gelled?" She snorted, "I'd have written you off if I had."

"That's nice." I murmured, "Remind me to look up the definition of 'help' when we're done."

"Shut up."

"So you basically think Kurt needs a 'steady guy'?"

"Yup."

"And you think that's me."

"Warts and all, whatever those warts may be."

"How do you know he wouldn't just be better off single?"

"Oh my _god_!" she said loudly and I held the phone away from my ear, "Blaine, I don't want to sound like a broken record, so this is the last time I'll say this, but you need to stop freaking out. This isn't a mountain, it's a little bitty mole hill and Cedric's an ugly ass mole. One of those ones with no hair and giant teeth. Talk. To. Kurt. Get to know him at least. Also, I might be wrong, but he'll probably need to know that you play for his team if you ever want to get with him."

I sighed, "Yeah, maybe."

"I mean, in your own time, but seriously."

I bit my lip, "Well, I have his number. I can reach him if I want to."

"Hey, you realise I have _your_ cell number now?" She purred, "Caller ID."

"I'm quaking in my boots."

"That's the standard reaction. Mind if I give it to Kurt?"

"Uh, yeah, I kind of do." I blurted.

"What if he wants to apologise? I know how evasive you can be Blaine, I might be doing you a favour."

"Please don't." I pleaded.

"I can't make any promises." Her voiced was infuriatingly sly.

"I'm hanging up."

"See you in class."

"Yeah, whatever." My thumb moved to the 'end call' icon.

"_Talk to Kurt!" _I heardher yell just as I pressed it.

I keeled over sideways on my bed and shut my eyes. Before I met Santana I'd never assumed that a simple conversation could ever be so exhausting. It appeared she'd well and truly made me her cause.

I yawned and clutched to the notion that not only would I be getting a monkey off my back by catching up with Kurt, I'd probably shake Santana off too. I was growing to adore her, but there was only so much encouragement I could take.

* * *

><p>The next morning, my satire lecture looming, I'd well and truly steeled myself to the knowledge that I'd no longer be able to doctor my exposure to Kurt. I'd take his lead. If he approached me, I'd submit, otherwise I'd keep my head down.<p>

I entered the auditorium and was almost instantly hailed by Santana, waving from her seat. Next to her sat David, austere as a parson, and next to him, Kurt. He was slumped low, gazing sightlessly ahead while chewing on the end of a ball point pen. It would have been impossible to bypass them without resorting to an obvious and offensive brushoff, which edgy as I was, wasn't my objective. I'd just sit next to Santana, a shield of friendly bodies between Kurt and I.

I had an inkling that even if I had flaked on my conviction and was subsequently bold enough to ignore them outright, Santana would take it upon herself to make a loud example of me in front of all assembled students. Either that or throw me over her shoulder, a fireman with a damsel, and haul me to the seat next to her.

I really wouldn't have put it past her.

I sat as the lecturer began addressing us. Kurt made no move to acknowledge me, though he didn't really seem to be paying attention to any of his surroundings. I waved to David then sank back into Santana's shadow. She peered down at me, an eyebrow raised.

"What an impressive show." She drawled.

I elbowed her in the thigh.

"Did he call you?" she whispered.

"Does it look like he called me?" I tried to lace the question with all the ire I felt at the implication that she actually had given him my number.

"Did you call _him_?"

"Shh!" I hissed, staring at our lecturer and opening my notebook.

Thankfully Santana remained silent for the duration, only glancing down at me a couple of times. At one point she reached over and surreptitiously scrawled in the margin of my book.

_Grow a pair._

I furrowed my brow and quickly scribbled under it.

_Already got one, thanks._

She snorted loudly.

At the end of the hour I gathered my things and moved to leave, only to be pulled back down by Santana. I turned resignedly.

"What now?"

"He's right there!" she whispered, "Do your thing."

I glared at her for a second, "OK, I appreciate your concern Santana, but there's a fine line between supportive and irritating."

She smirked, "And I'm firmly on the supportive side of it."

I pried her hand off me and stood, "Take a breath. I can do this myself."

I hustled out without a backward glance, and returned to my room to study.

As I read I concluded that Kurt had looked just as in need of time as I was. He'd seemed absent and preoccupied. What good was speaking to someone who didn't want to be spoken to? Why bother him when he had other things on his mind?

Half an hour passed when I heard a soft knock on my door. I stood, opening it mid-stretch, hands to the heavens, expecting either Puck or Rachel.

I definitely hadn't thought Kurt would be standing there.

My arms fell to my sides and I stared as he awkwardly shifted from foot to foot.

"Hi." He croaked.

"Hey." My voice was void of inflection.

"I, um… I wanted to talk to you." He swallowed, "After class, I mean, but not with Santana and David there. You were gone before I could catch you."

Apparently I had been on his mind… he could have fooled me.

I felt a strange wave of anger and before I could stop myself I asked, "Is Quinn making you apologize again?" The defensive tone of my voice sickened me and I regretted the words as they fell from my lips.

He just blinked once, "Can I come in?" he lifted his hand a little, gesturing down the corridor, "I don't know if Cedric's in. I don't want to run into him right now."

I had the urge to ask if that was because he was on my threshold and he was afraid of Cedric seeing green, or if he was simply still sore at him from the drunken incident at the dinner party. Instead I stepped back and held the door open as he entered, pushing it to, but not closing it entirely.

Kurt perched on the edge of my bed and I propped myself on the desk opposite him, ankles and arms crossed. He was wearing an oversized grey sweater, loose sleeves tugged down over his knuckles and suddenly looking very small. His face bore a sort of ashen pallor. That unique tone of skin you only see in sickness or sadness or fatigue. For all I knew he could have been suffering from any, or all of the three. A soft light shone in the window behind him and further blurred his lines and features. Edges hazy and ill-defined, bleeding together like a watercolour. Lips into skin into scalp. At the sight every drop of irritation I felt retreated in a swift tide. This was what I had wanted after all. For him to come to me on his own terms.

I waited for him to speak, and after a moment he looked up at me through his eyelashes, almost transparent in the sun.

"I hope you don't mind that I came here." He said quietly, "A scary little brunette downstairs told me which room was yours."

"That'd be Rachel." I almost smiled at his ability to be humorous even when noticeably uncomfortable.

"Mm." he nodded, "She also said to tell you that she's 'happy to take any calls, but I'm not a damn answering machine.'" He mimicked her staccato speech pattern and voice flawlessly.

That time I did smile. "Oh… thanks."

"I'm guessing that has something to do with Quinn?" he asked, "She said she'd tried to get you a couple of times."

"Santana too." I shrugged, "It doesn't matter though. I know they mean well."

"A little too well." He muttered, "Sorry about Santana."

"I can handle her." I hesitated, "I think."

"I'm not here because of her." He said firmly, holding my gaze, "Or Quinn. I just want to make that clear."

I bit my lip, "Okay."

"Did…" he looked down, "Did she tell you anything about me?"

"No!" I said quickly, "No, nothing. She just…" I struggled to think of what to say without straight out lying to him about her interest in the situation, "I think she just wants us to reconcile."

He nodded slowly, "Good. I mean… so do I."

He spoke quietly, and I turned my desk chair and sat, my elbows on my knees.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He said, wringing his hands in his lap.

I exhaled, "Thank you."

"Every time I've seen you I've either been offending you or apologising to you." He laughed bitterly, "I feel like I should probably apologise for that too."

I shook my head, "You really don't need to."

As I said it I realised he didn't. His coming to my door had been enough of an apology. He had consciously run the risk of encountering Cedric when he'd clearly rather not, or having me turn him away. Still he'd come, and the words themselves now seemed fiercely secondary.

"Well, I won't then." He smiled sadly and cleared his throat, "I want to ask you to dinner tomorrow night though. Maybe we can do something novel like actually have a proper conversation." He said, "Assuming you still want anything to do with me."

"Um, sure." I blurted, surprised, "That'd be lovely."

His face noticeably lifted, eyes crinkling and shoulders relaxing, "Great. I'll be on my best behaviour."

I beamed, "It's Okay. I believe you."

"I want a chance to explain myself too." He said, "I think I owe you, and I need you to hear it from me."

"Of course." I nodded fervently. That was a concept I understood intimately.

"Thanks."

We both stood and walked to the door. I opened it and he looked at me somewhat sheepishly.

"Santana gave me your number." His tone was contrite, "Do you mind if I text you to let you know the details?"

I laughed, "That's fine."

"She's like a dog with a bone." He grinned, "I'll tell her we spoke. Hopefully get her to let up a little."

I raised an eyebrow, "I don't know her as well as you, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

He snorted, his face momentarily tranquil and free of tension, "I can dream."

He surreptitiously, but noticeably paused as he was leaving, peering down the satisfactorily Cedric-free corridor before exiting. He turned one last time and cocked his head.

"Why do I keep wanting you to forgive me?" He scrutinized me.

"Beats me." I shrugged, then added, "I am grateful though."

"Me too…" he said slowly, brow knitted, "See you tomorrow, Blaine."

"Bye."

I shut the door and leant my back against it, exhaling a breath I felt I'd been holding in the past five minutes. It was strange that my arguably cowardly tactics had resulted not only in the very thing I'd desired, but also an invitation to dine with Kurt. It was the kind of behaviour that probably could have done without positive reinforcement, though I wasn't about to argue.

Our exchange had undeniably been an awkward one, however when I let him in my room I'd fully intended to be at the very least standoffish. As childish as it sounds, he _had_ hurt my feelings at the dinner party, and my equally childish plan from my overly busy brain had been to maybe get a little of my own back before granting him leniency. Observing him, as opposed to just thinking about him, altered things though. It was awful to see him subdued and upset, but it was worse to see him repentant. He hadn't even been that way the last time he'd come to apologise to me, and the change was startling. All of his sprightly cheek absent. I was incapable of wielding the power to remove some of that look and not use it.

And the expression he got when I did let him off without question... glancing-eyed and lovely, like a dark cloud passing, allowing the shackled sun to warm my clammy skin and make it prickle. The look that had first drawn me in and drew me again and again.

I was too scattered to go straight back to studying, so I lay on my bed and absent-mindedly skimmed a copy of _Steppenwolf_, by Hermann Hesse. It was a book I'd already been struggling to get into, and it was now almost impossible to pay attention. After a while my phone rang and I was unsurprised to see Santana's name flashing insistently at me.

I answered with a grin, "You just don't give up."

"What happened?" She asked.

"What makes you think anything's happened?" I teased.

"Don't make me come 'round there Anderson." She chided, "I have ways of making you talk, and none of them are painless."

"Fine." I groaned, "He found me, he said sorry, he asked me to dinner. No big deal."

"Bullshit!" She cried, "I'd put big money on you being on cloud nine right now."

"Cloud seven, maybe…"

"Wait." She cut in, "Dinner? Like a date? A dinner date? Where?"

"Bye Santana." I laughed.

"You suck!" she shouted.

I picked my book up again and immediately received a text.

_Asshole._

It was telling of our curious relationship that I was cheered by the message as opposed to insulted.

* * *

><p>Later still that night my phone buzzed again, and I gladly abandoned my readings to snatch it up.<p>

_Hi, it's Kurt. There's a nice, cheap Italian place on the main street I thought I could take you to. Seven o'clock?_

I quickly typed a reply.

_Seven is fine. Meet you there?_

I waited a minute, tapping my pen impatiently.

_Sure. I'm glad you have my phone number too now. I feel less creepy._

I smiled.

_So are we equally creepy now?_

An almost instant reply.

_No, I think the creepiness cancels out._

I laughed and brashly typed.

_That's a relief. By the way, I'm looking forward to it._

A buzz.

_So am I. Goodnight Blaine._

I stared at the text and vaguely wished that were it not so clinical, conversation could be as shameless and simple when face to face. There was very little chance that our discussion the next night would be as light or laid-back.

* * *

><p>I saw Kurt in our Satire tutorial the next day, but the extent of our interaction was him greeting me with a timorous smile and a 'hi.'<p>

Afterwards Santana corralled me as I knew she would.

"Kurt won't tell me anything either." She half whined.

"Oh?" I raised my eyebrows, "And you're not taking that as a sign?"

"No, I'm not." She stated, "At least tell me if it's a date. Does he know you're gay?"

I lowered my voice, "No he doesn't. And remember Cedric?" I glared, "I don't even know how you're managing to pester both of us and not let on to Kurt that you're actually matchmaking. Uninvited matchmaking, just so you know. "

"It's a talent." She smirked.

"Yeah, well don't get your wires crossed." I urged.

She narrowed her eyes, all trace of amusement sliding from her face, "Are you dealing with this?" She asked sternly, "I mean, really Blaine. Don't just brush me off."

I ran a hand through my hair, "I'm freaking out a little bit." I confessed, "This is just… it's kind of a big thing for me."

"What is?" she asked.

I clicked my teeth a couple of times, choosing my words, "Getting emotionally invested."

She laughed shortly, "We're on the same page there." She breathed in deeply, "I dunno… don't shut yourself off. I think you'll be fine as long as you don't alienate him."

"It hasn't bothered you." I mentioned.

"You aren't _that_ bad." She grinned, "I'm sure you'll charm the pants off him. I mean, that is your goal, right?"

I gave her a brief disdainful gaze, then said genuinely, "Thanks." I squeezed her arm, "I guess I'll see you later. I've got to go get ready."

She smirked wickedly, "Kurt's a pretty big fan of skinny jeans. Just saying."

I shook my head, eyes wide with exasperation, and exited the classroom.

* * *

><p>I arrived at the restaurant, somewhat embarrassingly in my slimmest pair of black jeans, to find Kurt already seated, sipping water from a straw and fiddling with a laminated menu. He smiled up at me as I pulled my chair out.<p>

"Hi."

"Hey." I sat.

"Have any trouble finding me?" He asked politely.

"It was the only Italian place I could see." I said, "I was sort of worried that maybe there'd be two and I'd pick the wrong one."

"Nope." He chuckled, glancing around at the stained wood and gingham furnishings, "Even with the population of the college I don't think Albarn's lust for pasta is that great."

I didn't doubt that. From what I could tell, the town centre consisted of two 'main' streets running parallel to one another, a dear little square and war memorial, and a few side streets occupied by hippy boutiques, a strip mall and several bars. To say it was quaint was a fair assessment.

He handed me a menu, "Want to share a garlic bread?" he asked.

"Sure." I grinned. There were two divine spots of colour high on his cheekbones and I was glad to have something to draw my eyes away. He appeared to be in better cheer than yesterday, though I thought there was still a slight dolorous lilt to his voice.

We were silent while we examined the menus. For me it was a comfortable silence though. Mutual and calm, while around us patrons murmured over meals, waiters danced, and plates clinked in the kitchen. A rich, still point in the clamour. Once we'd ordered, Kurt reached over and poured me a glass of water.

"What made you come to Albarn?"

I thought wildly for a second. I wasn't about to indulge my full reasons for leaving Ohio, yet I didn't want to lie to him as I so comfortably did to everyone else. On top of that, last time Ohio had been mentioned between us it had resulted in stony silence and necessitated his first apology to me. I settled on harmless truths and the hope that I'd be absolved by the fact that Kurt had been the one to bring it up.

"I was sick of it." I said, "I was studying law, and I hated it. Albarn took my fancy, and I was lucky they accepted me." I shrugged as if to say, _and here I am._

"Hm." Kurt said, "I don't think many people would have the guts to just pick up and start again like that."

"Guts didn't come into it much." I confessed, "When I say I hated law, I mean I really… I just couldn't stand it."

"The promise of a lawyer's salary wasn't enough?" He grinned shrewdly.

"I'm a student." I put my palms up, "I've learnt how to do poor and happy."

Poor and acceptably content was probably more accurate, but I didn't want to overly complicate things. Besides, it's not as if any of my dissatisfaction in life was connected to wealth.

He laughed, "Do you still have family in Westerville?"

"Just parents. I'm an only child. What about -" I hesitated, then timidly delved, "Can I ask you about Lima?"

His eyes widened and he waved his hands wildly, banishing my query, "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Yes! I mean, I wish the place would be swallowed by the Earth, but I can usually talk about it without grinding my teeth." He paused, "Much."

"Oh." I said, "I was worried about -"

"Last time, yeah." He finished my sentence, "I told you, I was having a really bad night. Definitely not my finest moment. I'll warn you if the subject starts making me homicidal."

"That's good to know." I snorted, "So, what about you?"

"I don't have any siblings either. Just my dad and me."

His eyes grew discernibly warmer, and I asked, "You miss him?"

"I do." He busied himself straightening his cutlery, "If I could convince him to move here I would, but he runs a business. He's a mechanic." He smiled distractedly, then added, "However, unlike me, he loves Lima. He's lived there all his life, but I worry about him."

"Why?" I asked softly.

"My mum died when I was nine." He said quickly, "It was fine when he had me around, but I hate the thought of him getting older and being alone."

His mother was dead? I wondered if that was the reason he despised Ohio. I was unsure what etiquette dictated when someone mentioned a family member who'd been gone for over a decade, but from his air I was sure Kurt wasn't keen on dwelling. My answer was to try to organise my features in some sort of minimally condescending sympathy and leave it at that.

"I sometimes visit him on weekends, but it never really feels like enough." He sighed.

I had no idea what to say. It wasn't often that I got caught out when it came to conversation, but there were a few subjects to which I truly couldn't relate, and the issue of my idiosyncratic relationship with my parents made this one of them. Despite my experience in fabrication, the look on Kurt's face when he spoke of his father was impossible to fake. It was the unwavering love I'd seen on Malcolm's face a few times early in our relationship, and it was the most singularly pure thing I could ever recall witnessing. It was dazzling even now, when in relation to his dad, and my heart stuttered at the notion of maybe someday earning a similar precious look from Kurt.

He mustn't have been put off by my prolonged silence, as he asked "So, d'you have a girlfriend back west."

I started, "No! No, no, no."

"That's a surprise." He grinned.

I furrowed my brow, chest pounding, "Huh?"

His smile broadened, "I was just expecting you to have some doting grain-fed, blonde beauty under your hat."

Oh...

I laughed, exasperated, "Was that an insult?"

"Merely an observation." He pursed his lips to quell his obvious amusement, "I'd have thought it would be a compliment."

I flailed, "I suppose. I just mean… do I really come across that way?" I asked.

"No." He cocked his head, "Maybe a little."

"Is it the hair?" I tucked my fingers into the, gelled, intentionally neat curls at the base of my neck.

"The hair, the polo shirts." He listed, "The game show hostess laugh."

"Hey!" I cried, flicking a toothpick at him and missing by a mile.

"You're kind of spotless, Blaine." He reasoned, "I can't help what I see."

"Hmm, I guess." I shrugged. Was there a chance he had me figured out? If it were anyone else I'd be pleased that I was succeeding in maintaining my wholesome smokescreen, but in the case of Kurt I wasn't so sure. Maybe it would be a good thing if he were suspicious of my unwavering exterior. Frankly, I was too terrified to simply let it down completely, and definitely not all at once, but I sincerely hoped that maybe he'd be sharp enough to do some of the work for me.

For all the trouble I was having keeping myself from reverting to charming, mask-wearing Blaine, it was nothing compared to how much I was struggling to keep from flirting. I was forcing myself to staunch any dreamy stares and to keep my expressive hands safely out of sight under the table as he spoke.

"Did you play sports or something?" He probed, "Is there football coach out there who convinced you to live clean and set by example?"

"OK, that is _anything_ but me." I waved a finger at him, "And no, I was in show choir, remember?"

He made a tutting noise, "That doesn't mean a thing."

"I was just a Warbler." I insisted, "And a slightly above average student."

"Who wore a tie and blazer five days a week."

"_That's_ me. Nothing special."

"Don't sell yourself short." He wheedled, "You at least dress remarkably well for someone who lived in a fashion vacuum."

I told myself to thank Santana later.

"They didn't lock us up Kurt."

"Silly me." He smirked, "You just give off shining, prep-school prefect vibes."

"I'm far from perfect." I said earnestly.

"I never said 'perfect.'" He took a long sip of water.

I buried my face in my hands and covered my eyes, shaking with repressed laughter at the absurdity of the conversation. Did McKinley High hold classes in quick wit? If Santana and Kurt were anything to go by it didn't seem that implausible.

"Just give a yell if this starts feeling like an interrogation." He giggled.

"So, five minutes back?" I peered up at him.

"Sorry." He unconvincingly mimicked a guilty smile. A small child with a makeup plastered face, stonily trying to convince their parents they hadn't smeared mummy's lipstick all over the walls.

In short, painfully endearing.

I sat up straight, "It's fine." I gasped, "I'm having fun."

Just then our meals arrived, and for a while we simply ate. Eventually Kurt gestured at my plate with his fork.

"What did you order, again?" he asked.

"Pumpkin ravioli."

"How is it?"

"Incredible." I groaned, "Want some?"

"No, that's fine." He said.

"You sure?" I wheedled, "It really is good. I'm kind of having an experience here."

His mouth twisted and he crumbled, "OK then, gimme."

"Pass me your fork." I ordered, seizing it from him and spearing a piece of pasta as he patiently held his hands out to take it from me.

He stole a small bite and chewed, his shoulders relaxing as he let out a muffled sound of what I'd like to think was ecstasy.

"Oh my god…"

"I never lie." I lied.

"Feel free to have some of mine." He offered.

I eyed his vegetable strewn plate ruefully, "I don't like eggplant…"

His mouth fell open, "You don't… ugh. I am going to chain David to the stove and make him cook for you until you realise what you're missing out on."

"If his cooking the other night is anything to go by, that might just work." I admitted.

"Yeah, he's freakishly talented." He smiled forlornly, awkwardly shifting a little,"D'you mind if I talk about Sunday night now?" He asked.

I put my fork down, "Not at all."

He poked at an olive, "I'm just afraid it might be a mood killer."

"It's fine." I insisted, "Whenever you want to."

"You're being far too nice to me." He said sharply, "Considering the circumstances at least."

I wrinkled my nose, "It's all an act."

"Then you've got a hell of a poker face." He smiled.

"Kurt, we're square." I sighed, "You've brought me to dinner, and you really don't have to explain a thing if it makes you uncomfortable."

He shrugged, "Honestly, It'll probably be worse for you. I'm used to it."

I sat back, "Try me."

He swallowed, then nodded, "OK. Um… I guess you know what set me off?"

I cleared my throat, "Cedric."

"Yeah… Cedric." He said absently, "I don't know how to explain. It was just… there wasn't a single person at that dinner table who thinks I should be with him. Santana's the only one that says it out loud, but all of the others… I mean, I don't think they hate him, but they don't exactly like him."

I nodded, rapt.

"So… every time he does something to give them more reason to think he's wrong for me, or for them to feel even the slightest bit of _pity_ for me for _choosing_ to stay with him… it just adds insult to injury I suppose. I'm thankful that they care, but their judgment isn't really appreciated."

"Cedric behaving like that… it's common?" I asked.

He bit his lip, "I… I guess. It gets to the point where the frequency doesn't really matter." He sighed, "That sounds appalling… I'm not trying to make out that him getting off his face and disappearing isn't what bothers me the most. It really, really is. It's just so _embarrassing_, when it happens like that. And you having to see it too… it just feels..." He looked like he was searching for an appropriate phrase, "Honestly, it feels like shit. Like absolute shit."

"Fair enough." I agreed.

"So he came in, made a dickhead of himself and me, was awful to you…" he took a breath, "And then _I _was awful to you. And I feel even worse, because I was too busy feeling ashamed of him stomping all over you to take a second to, I dunno, offer some empathy or something."

"I told you, it's fine." I said quietly.

"Then I'm lucky that you're far too forgiving for your own good." He stared at me.

I held his forceful gaze for a second, then looked down, "Only if it's justified."

"That's arguable." He was silent for a full minute, then said with surprising calm, "I think he's cheating on me again."

I looked up sharply, "What?"

"You don't mind that I'm telling you this?" he asked looking hard at me, his face motionless.

"No." I whispered. His honesty _was_ a little unwarranted. He was opening up to me, and divulging what I considered alarmingly base fears. It was something I would never dream of doing so early in a friendship. I mean, he wasn't even aware of my sexual orientation yet. Was there a chance that he trusted me?

"You're the kind of impartial ear that I haven't had for a while." He admitted, "I don't want to burden you just 'cause you're here, but I think even Quinn would take it the wrong way if I told her this. She'd try to give me advice or something… I don't really want advice." he murmured.

"You two are close, aren't you?" I asked warmly.

"She's my best friend." He smiled minutely, "I love her, but she tends to care too much. Which usually means she worries too much, and that's definitely the case where I'm concerned."

"Which is bad?"

"Sometimes, yeah. It's a beautiful thing to know there are people out there who care about me that much, but the novelty wears off when you know it's affecting their happiness too."

His voice was quiet, but stable, and he didn't seem distressed so much as melancholy. A tenor of voice subdued by a persistent weight. A weight that he appeared to have adapted to.

"Why do you think Cedric is cheating?" I asked carefully.

"I dunno…" He rested his cheek on his fist, "I'm probably being paranoid."

"I think it stops being paranoia after the first couple of times your boyfriend's unfaithful." I said brashly.

He blinked mechanically, "Do_ you_ think I'm an idiot for being with him?"

I exhaled through my nose, "Kurt, I don't think anything. Would it matter anyway? I don't know him and I hardly know you. If any decision made by you seems sound to you then I really don't have the right to give a fuck." I paused, lowering my voice, "I don't think you're an idiot though, no."

Though I was certain Cedric was one. I was finding it harder by the minute to keep that opinion to myself.

He stared at me again, expression indecipherable, "He wouldn't say where he was." He said, "The night of the dinner party. He could have been at a bar, or with friends, but I don't understand why he couldn't just _say_ that. I mean, he didn't even lie, he just evaded the question completely."

"And you think he was with a guy?"

"It's crossed my mind." He deadpanned.

I picked at the table for a second, then with a perfectly measured voice said, "I don't want you to get mad, and I'm not trying to shit stir, but… why _do_ you stay with him?"

He looked a little shocked at the question, though didn't raise his voice, "I suppose… I keep convincing myself he'll change. One minute he acts out and lets me down, and the next he turns around and is just so damn _sweet_." He said, "He'll crawl back on his hands and knees and I'll forget. I always convince myself that he's going to stay that way. Committed. Every single time. He even does for a while, but, hey presto. It never lasts." He scratched the back of his head distractedly.

There had to be more to it than that. I found it impossible to believe that Kurt could be disappointed by one person so many times and not bear a grudge. Maybe it was a matter of proximity and an inability to properly distance himself from Cedric, but that seemed like such a feeble bounds for a relationship that it couldn't have been the only explanation.

"He was different when I met him." He continued, apparently trying to clarify, "We were fine for about eight months before any of this started."

"That's not that long." I mumbled.

"So you can see how hard I've tried to convince myself otherwise." He said in a cold voice of deadly calm.

At that I froze.

Had Kurt loved him? Did he love him? Had Cedric broken his heart?

Maybe it was still breaking.

As we'd spoken, the atmosphere had become tangibly tense. I didn't think that Kurt would permit himself to become visibly annoyed with me, but at that instant I didn't want to push my luck by asking too many questions. I'd been optimistic that he might mention the pills he'd been taking. There had now been two occasions when he'd done so in plain sight, so he can't have been too concerned about me enquiring, yet I was hesitant.

Eventually he sat up, passing a weary hand over his eyes, "Anyway… I spend more time than I'd like debating whether or not to stay with Cedric." His eyes flickered uneasily between my face and my hands, "I know it's still inexcusable, but do you understand why I yelled at you?"

"Perfectly." I breathed. I contemplated offering myself as a listening ear if ever he needed one, but was worried it may sound twee or insincere. He'd said that he hadn't wanted advice, and it was possible that comfort was equally unwelcome.

The most surprising thing was that I'd had no idea that it would be so hard to resist offering it to him. I wasn't in the habit of doling out reassurance of any type, partly because people rarely sought it, but mostly because it was uncomfortable to me. Yet sitting opposite Kurt as he spoke of how badly Cedric treated him… I wanted to reach out. Take his hand or cup his cheek. Say something insignificant in a significant manner and see his body relax. Watch him unfurl in front of me.

Because of me.

Instead I kept my hands in my lap and thanked our waitress as she collected our empty plates.

Breaking the sullen silence, Kurt shook his head a little, and out of the blue said, "Look, there's a house party just a little walk from here. I think Quinn and the others are there. D'you want to go?" he paused, "I could use a drink."

I puffed my cheeks out, "You read my mind."

* * *

><p><em>[AN Like I said, weirdly abrupt ending. If I'd left it as one chapter it probably would have been something ridiculous like 18,000 words... not cool. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that, and there's more Kurt back story coming your way._

_I promise I will never again take that long to update. I get sick like, once a year, so it's out of the way now._

_If anyone has any questions, or just wants a chat, come holler at me on Tumblr. I kind of live there._

_Bron x]_


	9. Chapter 9

_[A/N Late again... sorry guys. There was a whole lot of stuff in this chapter that I really wanted to get right for many reasons, and I flipped out a little bit. I was having Kurt characterisation troubles too. That boy gets away from me sometimes.  
><em>

_So, remember how I had a trigger warning for later chapters? Well, it's coming into effect now. Without giving away the story, I just want to sort of put a blanket warning I suppose. If you're likely to get upset by discussion of traumatic things, please don't read on. I don't want anyone to get distressed, and I don't really want to be more specific given the eight chapters it's taken to get to this point. It's only discussions though. Nothing's happening to any of the characters at present.  
><em>

_Anyway, not crazy about this chapter, and I'll probably have thought of a dozen ways to improve it within the hour, but I hope you like it. The end is rubbish too, but I'm not even kidding, if I'd mulled over a better one it probably would have taken me like two days. Also, my beta said that she simultaneously wanted to hug and slap Blaine, so I hope the urge to hug outweighs the latter._

_Again, thanks to **Kyrakahn** for beta-ing (I love you) and additional thanks to **soundsaboutright** for convincing me to not be such a goddamn perfectionist.]_

* * *

><p>We exited the restaurant, Kurt shrugging into his navy coat as I wound my scarf around my neck. It was cool, but far from cold, the white glare from evenly spaced lampposts giving the street a ghostly, artificial look, like the set of a television show. I suddenly felt that if I were to push on the wall of the restaurant it would sway and topple backwards, taking the rest of the shopfront crashing down like dominos. All plywood and cheap paint. I found myself reaching out, just to be sure, and felt the reassuring chill of brick and rough grout beneath my fingers.<p>

Kurt gave me a little quizzical smile, the beckoned back toward the college, "This way. It's only about a ten minute walk."

There's something in the word 'party' that latched onto me at childhood and never let go. It's in that first game of pass-the-parcel and your first triumph at musical chairs. A little twinge of innocent excitement. It was irrelevant that in the years since my infancy the alcohol content of the fruit punch, and the level of debauchery present had multiplied a couple of dozen times, I still loved a house party. From ice-cream cake to kegs. So many bodies, so much secrecy. A chance to either smear your name or melt into the crowd. I tended to do the latter, but over the years I'd had a great many interesting conversations with countless faceless students. There had been just as many occasions where I'd found myself subject to inane nattering from pretty, drunk girls (some of them, I think vainly looking to sleep with me) but tonight I hoped to stick to Kurt if I could. Now that we'd got apologies and reassurances of forgiveness out of the way I was looking forward to the prospect of a little bit of inconsequential chitchat.

After we'd been walking a minute, Kurt reached into the inside pocket of his coat and, with a flourish produced a small hip flask.

"_Voila_." He chirped.

"Well, that's handy." I remarked.

"I don't always carry it." He explained, "I just thought there'd be a chance we'd move on to the party after dinner."

"What's in it?"

"Vodka." He passed it to me, "I know what it's like turning up to these things sober, and it usually puts me off a little."

I unscrewed the lid, "Tell me about it." I took a swig, trying not to wince, "It's much harder to get started when you can see where you're about to end up."

"Puking in a bush or dancing on a table?" He smirked.

"Exactly." I passed the flask back to him, already feeling a hint of that characteristic blanket of warmth that comes with alcohol.

Kurt took a sip, then said, "You know, I'm finding it kind of hard to imagine you dancing on a table, Blaine."

I chuckled, "If tonight goes badly, maybe you'll see it firsthand."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of 'badly.'" He said cryptically, staring straight ahead.

I glanced across at him and swallowed dryly, "Um… bad for me." Was he flirting or just being playful? I reached for the flask again and took two quick, fortifying gulps, "I can't speak from experience, but I think I'd have to be pretty smashed to get to that point."

"Want me to keep an eye on you?" he asked earnestly, eyes full of mock concern. Or perhaps it was sincere. His attitude to alcohol seemed quite cavalier, but from what I'd seen of Cedric it didn't strike me as impossible that drinking to excess might trouble Kurt.

"I think I'll be right." I said, bringing the flask up to my mouth, only for him to pluck it from my hand, "Hey!" I laughed.

"It sounds like you really ought to pace yourself." He smiled at me for a second, before taking a deliberately long drink.

"Oh, you're so thoughtful."

"Uh huh."

He held the vodka in his right hand and I aimlessly looked down at his left, swaying casually at his side. I desperately wanted to take it. To wrap my fingers around his own lovely square ones and just keep walking without a word. I wished more than anything that I could do so without any questions from him. A hollow desire, that in my imagination would result in him offering me a small smile, a reassuring squeeze, and no need for any explanation of my actions.

Of course, that was impossible. I wasn't brave enough, and life would never be so ecstatically simple. That cruel truth aside, on a brash whim I strategically swung my arm just a little too close to his so that the backs of our hands brushed for a fraction of a second.

I forced down a bubble of joy at the brief thrill of contact, and murmured, "Sorry." As if it had been an accident.

He merely shot me a bright eyed look and shrugged, offering me another drink.

At least some things were simple.

I could hear the unmistakable sounds of partying from a block away. Throbbing bass and yelling and laughter echoing down the street. We entered the two story clapboard house through the front, pushing past groups of people chatting in the doorway, and came to a stop in the front hall next to the staircase.

Kurt leant close, cupping his hand to his mouth and yelling over the din, "I'm going to look for some cups and see if there's anything to drink." I could feel his warm breath on my ear and neck, "Stay here. I'll be back in a sec."

I nodded mechanically, and watched him disappear into a mass of students, his mouth moving soundlessly as he apparently ordered the assembled crowds to make way.

As I mentioned, I'm not a stranger to attending parties on my own, and subsequently tend not to feel uncomfortable when finding myself alone amidst multitudes. That fact aside, with no drink in my hand and no compulsion to seek someone to talk to, I felt obscenely conspicuous. And not in an eye-catching way so much as a 'stay away from that creep' kind of way.

I shifted my weight from one foot to another, purposefully examining the doorframe to the living room opposite me, when I felt something collide with my hip. I lurched a little, looking down to see Rose, Wes' girlfriend, stumbling backward. I threw my hands out and firmly grabbed her shoulders, steadying her on her impractical strappy wedges. Her red hair was dishevelled, falling in her face and sticking up at wild angles.

"You right?" I yelled, still clutching her.

She blinked at me, eyes unfocused for a moment before they flooded with comprehension.

"I know you." She slurred, evidently very drunk. The only time we'd crossed paths had been at the last house party I'd attended, and she'd been far more intent on ripping Puck a new one and making out with Wes to pay much attention to me.

"Yeah, a little." I loosened my grip and when she didn't topple, let go entirely.

"Your name's Ben." She shouted.

"Blaine." I corrected.

"Yeah, Blaine… starts with 'B'"

"Yep." I nodded, smiling bemusedly. She didn't respond, looking down sluggishly and taking a deep breath, "Do you want me to go find you some water?" I asked. She looked nauseous and a quick scan of our surroundings didn't reveal any of our mutual acquaintances.

"I'm fine." She urged, reaching out and grabbing my collar, fist tight, "Have you seen Wesley anywhere?" She bellowed.

"No." I placed a tentative hand on her waist to stop her from falling on me, "I just got here."

"If you find him…" she began, closing her eyes for a second before continuing, "If you find him, tell him I'm looking for him. Would you do that, Ben…?" she shook her head, "No… Blaine?"

"Yeah, sure." I said.

Rose didn't seem particularly distressed, but she was some way past three sheets to the wind, and I would have felt remiss if I didn't insist on taking her outside and getting her to drink something non-alcoholic. She remained clutching my shirt, now stock-still, resting her forehead on my shoulder. I patted her back awkwardly, praying for Kurt's return.

"Do you want to sit down?" I yelled quietly in her ear.

Her head snapped up, "No, I'm good." She stood up straight, "I'm gonna keep looking for Wes…"

Before I could stop her, she'd turned and tottered down the hall further into the house. I craned my neck, tossing up whether to go after her and risk losing Kurt when I spotted a familiar glossy raven head of hair in an unexpected situation.

Santana had a tall blonde girl with feline eyes pressed up against the wall in the raucous throng, whispering in her ear. The girl looked like she might have laughed breathily at whatever Santana said to her, but if she'd been planning to reply she was cut short as Santana covered her lips with her own.

"Our Santana likes cheerleaders."

I jumped and turned to see Kurt at my elbow, grinning. He moved to stand beside me and raised his voice above the crushing music.

"The blonder the better."

"Is she – "

"A lesbian?" he shrugged, "We've given up guessing. Give her a pretty face and a strong pulse…" he cocked his head, "Maybe throw in a shred of personality." He laughed, "I'm not sure if that last part is essential though."

As we watched, Santana's hand moved slowly down the girl's body, sliding over her hip teasingly and coming to rest on her denim clad inner thigh. She didn't pull away and Santana seemed to take it as an indication that she had free reign.

I swallowed hard and looked away awkwardly, just for a second.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Kurt asked amiably, blinking those sooty lashes.

"No! God no." I stuttered, "I… I… no… I mean… are they just going to stay there? Shouldn't they… I dunno, find a room?"

Kurt clucked his tongue, "I think where sex is concerned Santana is of the 'get it while it's hot' school. I'm sure they'll find somewhere more private if they need to, but from what I can tell she seems to worry that if they have to wait one of them might get bored."

"Right…" I said slowly, now unable to tear my eyes from the fascinating, provocative sight. Santana was brushing the girl's hair from her shoulder and focussing her slow mouth on the crook of her neck.

Of course, my single-minded romantic interest in Kurt had bred an equivalent level of lust. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a significant amount of that brand of thirst at the best of times, and it was a desire that I found incredibly hard to contain. I'd simply been trying my hardest to ignore it, but such a task had never been particularly easy to begin with. Now it was almost unbearable. It was agonizingly hot in the house, Kurt right next to me. I swallowed dryly, still staring.

Kurt snorted, gaping at me, "God, Blaine really? I've never understood the appeal of this whole girl on girl thing."

"Huh?" I started, turning to him, "Me neither!" He'd obviously misread my detached yearning and roaring hormones as actual attraction to the girls, "I'm just kind of surprised."

"Hmm." He nodded, "It's been a while since Santana's 'surprising' became so predictable to me that it feels like an oxymoron to call anything she does unexpected."

"She's never boring." I murmured.

"Nope." He chirped grabbing me by the elbow and tugging me down the hall, "Let's go outside. It's too loud in here."

"Okay." I laughed, trailing after him and only just noticing the two cups and half full bottle of Makers Mark in his hand that he must have pilfered from the kitchen. He was obviously on a mission to lighten the mood since our conversation at dinner, and I was more than happy to submit.

"Evening!" Kurt cried merrily as we passed Santana, but she either didn't hear, or was too preoccupied to bother acknowledging us. I honestly didn't blame her.

Besides, it was nice to know that there was something in the world she appeared to enjoy more than meddling with me and Kurt.

As he dragged me through the kitchen to the back door, I spotted Wes leaning on the counter next to David, and waved my free hand to catch his attention.

"Hey!"

He looked up and smiled, waving back.

"Go find Rose!" I ordered.

"Shit!" He stood up straight, spilling his drink on himself and trotting out of the room just as Kurt and I broke into the comparatively fresh night air.

He finally released me, and we glanced around the back porch for a place to sit. In a large circle of revellers sitting cross-legged on floorboards, a pale hand shot up and wiggled it's fingers.

"Yoo hoo!" Quinn gestured.

"Hi hon'." Kurt called.

She blew us a quick kiss, turning back to the dark haired boy she was talking to, as two thick arms wrapped around my chest.

Alarmed, I twisted wildly, relaxing when I recognised the familiar dark Mohawk in my periphery, "Oh, hi Puck."

"Hey man!" he yelled letting go. He smelt strongly of beer and his face wore a blissful glazed expression, "Watcha doin'?"

"Just having a drink." I grinned, noticing his gaze had fallen on Kurt, who stood behind me smiling good-naturedly and blinking like a sparrow, "Um, this is Kurt." I explained, "Kurt, Puck."

Kurt took Puck's larger hand, "Like _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ Pleasure."

Puck shook back automatically, furrowing his brow at me, "Do all your buddies make references I don't understand?"

"Yeah, probably." I laughed, winking at Kurt who was eyeing me, magnanimously bemused.

"So… you guys are good friends?" Puck asked leisurely, "Like, _close_ friends." He widened his eyes at me in a way he must have mistakenly thought was discreet.

"Yeah, Puck." I said through gritted teeth, punching his arm solidly. I hoped that to Kurt it came across as a chummy manner, "We're friends. How about you go find the guys, huh? Jeff? Sam? I'll see you later?"

"Oh… yeah, totally." He sputtered. I'm pretty certain I was grinning manically, all teeth, and he thankfully took the hint, "See you dude. Nice to meet you Kurt. Take it easy."

I didn't regret telling Puck that I was gay, but it was clear that he had a little trouble grasping the concept of secrecy.

He slunk inside, and Kurt giggled, "Okay then. He's interesting."

"He's drunk!" I blurted in panicked explanation. I think some of Puck's tactlessness may have rubbed off on me.

"Yeah, I got that." He smirked, "Um… want to go sit in the garden?"

"Sure." I breathed, following him down the steps.

The large yard was fairly uninhabited and looked as if it had once been magnificently landscaped, however at present it was mostly overgrown bushes and a few low stone walls zigzagging around at frenetic angles. We made for one over by the fence and sat, Kurt crossing his legs at the knee, plonking the stolen bottle between us and passing me a cup. The warm light from the house cast dull shadows over us, illuminated enough that I could still make out his face in the dark.

I didn't know if he was spending time with me because he was still trying to atone for yelling at me, or if he genuinely wanted to, but I was elated either way. In the space of two minutes we'd passed most of his close friends, yet here I was with him. Just the two of us.

I cleared my throat as he poured me a measure of amber liquid.

"So, Santana…" I began.

Kurt paused with the bottle at an angle, cocking his head and scrutinising me, "Look at you." He purred, "So curious."

"I just…" I could think of no excuse, "Yeah. Yeah, I am." I finished weakly.

"What d'you want to know?"

"Well, did she ever come out to you?" I asked, staring at my hands.

"Mm, no. Not really."

"Then how… how did you find out?"

Kurt sighed meaningfully, "I've known Santana for a long time, Blaine. All through high school and all through the whole awful identity crisis thing we go through. When I came out…" he paused and took a sip of his drink, "Well, for one I think just about all of my peers knew anyway, but I guess I basically did it all at once. You know, I told a few people, and I didn't really mind who found out after that. I was at peace with being gay, I knew who would support me, and I dealt with the people who didn't." He took a deep breath, "As best I could, anyway. But I consciously made a show of _coming out._ It was what I felt I needed to do, and so I did."

He stared at his feet as he spoke, and I followed his gaze to the matte black leather, stealing a look at his eyes from time to time.

"And Santana…" he shrugged, "Her sexual orientation has always just felt like a part of her. I suppose she is a lesbian, but she never went through the bells and whistles like I did. You know what I mean?"

"No…" I admitted. He was explaining it all to me in a charmingly straightforward way, as if I wasn't intimately acquainted with the stresses, joys and pains of the process. He was avoiding condescension, and wasn't sugar-coating. My heart ached at the grace of it. Even so, I wasn't quite sure I understood entirely.

"Okay." He turned to me, now holding my gaze, "There was no big ceremony. She didn't like, sit us down or anything, and she was perfectly happy not doing the small town, 'fuck you, deal with it,' like I did. She just started dating and sleeping with girls from time to time, without making any kind of effort to hide it from anyone. And I mean, none of us cared. Of course we didn't care. I suppose that's the benefit of growing up with the same few people. Having a level of comfort and an idea of who can be trusted. She must have decided she'd reached a point in her life where she knew that acting on her desires wouldn't be a big deal. Like, as long as she was being honest with herself then that was all she needed."

"So you've never even spoken to her about it?"

He let out a lovely, rough, brazen laugh, "This is _Santana_, Blaine. She talks about her sex life all too often."

I must have still look confused, as Kurt smiled sympathetically and nudged my elbow with his own.

"What I'm trying to get at is that her sexual inclinations are of so little consequence to her or anybody else close to her that the subject doesn't really come up. Obviously, she's not always forthright about it, but she never _hides_ it."

"She didn't tell me." I muttered. I couldn't decide if it was hypocritical of her to not have told me, or hypocritical of myself to even care.

"Did you ask?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not."

"I'd happily bet she'd have told you if you did." He stated, "Does it matter that she is?"

"No."

"Has your opinion of her changed now you know?"

"No!" I said, affronted.

"Exactly. That's just how she likes it." He said slowly, "It's not cowardice. It could be seen that way I guess, but it's not. I love her, and I'll never ever pass judgment on her for doing what she needs to do to be happy."

I took a quick gulp of bourbon, then reconsidered and drained my cup entirely.

After a moment I asked, "Do her parents know?"

"Probably not."

"Does that bother her?"

"I don't think so." He narrowed his eyes, and carefully said, "Look, Blaine, it's been a while since I assumed being gay came with an obligation to feel the need to tell everyone you know. I think there was a point when I did believe that, but not anymore. In my case, not telling my dad made me miserable. In Santana's case she's either incredibly well adjusted or doesn't care. Chances are she went through some kind of internal struggle or something at some point, but there isn't an all-encompassing _Homosexuality for Dummies _that determines how to behave." He paused, "Actually, there probably is, but I think I've seen a _Scrapbooking for Dummies _too_, _soI wouldn't rush out and buy it."

I laughed and swirled my drink. I understood the despair Kurt referred to in regards to not being out to his father. I'd experienced it firsthand, and I'd witnessed it in Malcolm, despite the fact that in his case his patriarch had been an oppressive, homophobic prick who successfully wore him down. At the time, living under my parents roof, I'd felt like I'd been hiding. Lying, and betraying myself. I had no idea where the feeling stemmed from, but I'd sort of grown to assume it was part of the course. Obviously twenty year old Blaine had very different ideas to sixteen year old Blaine, but I still doubted that I'd have got to where I am now, all measure and pretence, had I not come out to my parents and felt the initial gorgeous release that accompanied it.

Santana's approach was one that not only had I never witnessed, but one I'd never even considered. I suppose it's narrow minded of me, but in my limited exposure I believe I'd only ever been privy to two polar opposites. Out or closeted. Then there was Santana. Her, and no doubt a wealth of others.

And then there was me. Where did that put me? It's absurd, but I'd never really thought about it. Never thought I was anything but _out,_ even though at any given time there was always a percentage of my acquaintances, even friends, who were unaware of my homosexuality. I have my reasons, but it seemed my calculation of image and self-preservation as a whole had blinded me to that little quandary.

"You okay?" I'd been quiet for longer than I thought, and Kurt was regarding me with faint concern.

_I should tell him,_ I thought. _Tell him now. Tell him I'm gay. _My heart was racing, something akin to panic heavy in my veins. The bourbon and vodka had made me bold, but I still couldn't say it. My mind was rationalising at a break-neck pace, and it warned me I should wait until I was sober and clearheaded. Until I wasn't sitting in the dark out the back of some unkempt frat house. Until I wasn't hazy with drink, and out of character.

What of my character though? It had been so _fixed_ for a long time, and nothing had ever caused it to budge before. Would Kurt? Could he? More importantly, would I allow him to?

Finally and unsurprisingly, I said softly, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking."

"Well, don't think too hard." My palm was flat on the stone wall, and he put his own over it for a second, gripping reassuringly, "Santana never does, and I promise it's nowhere near as complicated as it sounds." He let go.

I've barely missed anything more in my life than I missed that trifling contact.

A boy and girl went running past us holding hands, giggling. A couple, maybe. They could have been complete strangers. We watched them dissolve into the deeper shadows at the back of the garden.

Kurt sighed, "I wonder if Cedric's here."

My stomach fell rapidly. This was a road I'd hoped our conversation wouldn't go down.

"Do you want him to be here?"

"I dunno." He said cautiously, "I don't think so."

"You'll have to face him eventually." I said flatly.

"I know." He huffed, "I know that. I'm just not sure I want to deal with him right now."

There was something about that statement that I found agonizingly frustrating. Apparently Kurt was intent on staying with Cedric, and yet he couldn't even bring himself to face him.

I looked straight ahead, and loudly asked the question I'd been wondering all along, "Why don't you just dump him?"

He gave me a withering sidelong glare of condescension.

"Thank you Blaine, that's very helpful." He spat, "I hadn't _ever_ thought of that."

It was possible I'd deserved his scorn for asking such an obvious question, but the bitterness in his voice, and the now unpleasantly familiar turn of mood instantly pissed me off. I stood abruptly, glaring down at him and raising my voice, "What the hell happened to you to make you such an asshole?"

I wasn't what I'd meant to ask. I'd meant, 'Why do you do that?' or 'What's your problem?' But there it was. 'What happened…?' I'd had no idea a mere flippant choice of words could prove so fateful.

For a second he looked angry. I thought he was poised with a scathing retort, but instead he pursed his lips and breathed heavily out his nose as the intensity faded from his eyes. He looked down at his hands then back up at me, the resigned expression on his face inexplicably making my indignation falter.

"I was almost beaten to death when I was seventeen."

"What?" I blinked.

"Sit down, Blaine." He said quietly.

I just stared at him. He held my gaze unswervingly, and I just stared, mouth slightly open, arms limp like wilted lilies.

"Please sit down."

I whirred to life and turned, the muffled sound of my thighs on stone as I complied. Kurt busied himself opening the bottle of whiskey, resting his lissom hand lightly on my wrist to steady it as he half-filled my cup.

"I want you to hear this." He said calmly, "Do you want to hear this?"

I swallowed. I honestly don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my life. Coming from an out gay teenager who'd been privy to more than a few unskilled fumbling's in unfamiliar beds, and the backs of equally unskilled boys' cars (or worse, their daddies cars) that was a pretty big call. My hands were prickly and sweaty, and I was painfully aware of Kurt beside me, perfectly composed while I mentally kicked myself. What had I stumbled across?

"Fuck Kurt, I'm – "

"Sorry?" He finished my sentence, "You don't have to be. I _can_ be an asshole. I'm not absolved just because I'm justifiably bitter. So, do you mind if I tell you this?"

I took a deep breath, "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because you're my friend." He poured himself an equally large drink, "I mean, you aren't about to go anywhere are you?"

"No."

"Uh huh. Whether I like it or not I doubt I have a more 'defining moment' than having my ribs kicked in on a sidewalk." He made sarcastic quotation marks with his fingers, "And you did ask."

I gave a solitary, wild laugh, "Believe me, I hadn't expected an answer."

"Hm." He nodded slowly.

"Okay." I faced him, "Okay, yeah. Tell me."

He laughed, "Now I've gone and built it up."

I gawped at how serene he was, given the ordeal he was about to recount.

He took a breath, "So, like I said, I was 'out' in Lima." He paused, "No, wait... I actually have no idea if I was beaten up because I'm gay. In a place as backward as Lima it's always struck me as the most likely explanation, but for all I know it could have been because I was an easy target, or just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever."

The way he was speaking was unnervingly matter-of-fact. He could have been discussing the weather or some dull state of current affairs.

He continued, "It was around eleven, and I was walking home from a friend's place. I never thought I'd need to be careful… I'd lived there all my life; I walked the same route every other evening. Anyway, this night three guys were walking towards me on the opposite side of the road. They started yelling and crossed over… just started shoving me at first, you know? I was terrified, but I thought they'd eventually get bored and leave me alone. I'm pretty sure they were drunk. I'd like to hope no one in their right mind would behave that way… or at least I used to hope. One of them punched me in the stomach, then I got hit in the head a few times. I guess I fell, but I don't remember anything after that."

I had a lump in my throat, sort of like the welling sensation I feel whenever I'm about to cry. There were no tears though, and I wasn't so much upset, as disturbed and shocked. A hard ball of some sort of adverse emotion forcing its way to the surface.

"What happened?" I asked, rapt.

"Well, I was unconscious. I must have just been lying there for a while, and a young woman walking her dog found me and called an ambulance." He bit his lip, "It's funny, the first thing that came to my mind when my dad told me that, was that I glad that I was the one in hospital and not her. Like, would they have done the same thing to that woman if they'd come across her instead of me?" He laughed, "And then I asked him what had happened to the Paul Smith shirt I'd been wearing… so I guess it wasn't the weirdest thought I had at the time."

I could understand that. Shock, in my experience, always seemed to lead to the strangest coping mechanisms. Clinging to mundane details to avoid focussing on whatever horror was fighting for centre stage, making traumatic experiences comical in retrospect. When I was seven my dad had broken a crystal champagne flute washing dishes, and cut his hand deeply. The whole way to the hospital he'd lamented the loss of the lousy glass while the white towel wrapped around his wound bloomed scarlet and my mother's knuckles shone white on the steering wheel.

"How long were you unconscious?" I asked.

"Just a couple of days." He said.

"_Just_." I laughed incredulously.

"I'm glad I woke up at all." He reasoned.

"How bad was it?"

He looked up, as if racking his brain, "Four broken ribs, severe concussion, a fractured disc in my spine. Apparently I was lucky neither of my lungs had been punctured, but I didn't feel very lucky at the time."

"God…" I whispered.

He smiled wanly, "I said I was almost beaten to death, but I don't think I was really at that high a risk of dying. If I hadn't been found, maybe. I try not to think about that. All I really had to deal with was a whole lot of bed rest and a brace for my back. I didn't lose any motor skills, I only had short term memory loss. You read about far worse things happening every other day."

I couldn't help but think he was understating the whole affair. Physical injuries were one thing, but it was surely impossible to come out of such an experience emotionally unscathed.

He continued, "I split my chin too. I must have hit it on the pavement when I fell. They told me that was twelve stitches, see?"

He tilted his head back until it the underside was exposed, the pale column of his neck stretched taut and indecently perfect. If there was a scar, I couldn't see it in the dark.

"No." I admitted.

"Everyone says that." He sounded slightly disappointed, "Here."

He reached out and took my hand, raising it and dragging the pads of my fingers lightly across his skin.

"Feel it?" He asked.

"Yeah." I breathed. There was a slight ridge, furrowed and uneven, about an inch and a half across. As I reached the edge of the mark I felt the barely discernable beginnings of stubble. I couldn't help moving my thumb over it for a second before pulling away.

"Those pills…" I said carefully.

He laughed, "It's okay, Blaine. You can ask me."

"What are they for?"

"Pain, mostly." He shrugged, "I don't need them all the time. Every now and then my back plays up, or my legs and feet hurt. I've never really understood why, but I'm told it's normal. Sometimes it gets really bad when it rains too. I can probably tell you before any meteorologist if the weather's about to turn for the worse."

"They're just for pain?" I ventured.

"Now, yes." He said, no discernable inflection in his voice.

Did he mean to imply that he used to take them for additional reasons? I knew that after head injuries there was a chance of confusion and disorientation, but even after physical symptoms subsided there remained the possibility of post-traumatic stress and the like. No doubt Kurt would have had to deal with the resultant shock of being beaten, regardless of the motive behind it. Still, I hardly knew him. I was floored by how much he'd already told me, and I didn't want to push it, given how reluctantI was to confide in him.

Instead I asked, "Did they catch them? The three guys?"

"No." He shook his head, "They're probably still in Lima right now, happy and scot-free."

"That's awful." I growled.

He sighed, "I've had a while to come to terms with it."

It struck me then how much our definitions of that phrase differed. To _come to terms_. I'd spent my late adolescence repressing and internalising every negative experience; self-sufficient and in denial to a fault. Kurt, on the other hand appeared to have clung onto his tribulations. Shared them and experienced them and done nothing but _feel_. He was so open and so honest and, to my way of thinking alarmingly willing to recount and relive. It was possible that, like me, it was all a front, but his coping mechanisms seemed on the surface to be my complete opposite. I found it startlingly tantalising.

I also wondered _why_ he was being so forthcoming. I wondered if this was something he did with every person he met, even if it was for a hopeful, drunken half hour at some dive, on-campus party. Whether I was no more special than the last or next acquaintance, or if he believed he saw potential in me to _get_ him. Maybe I'm simply romanticising him, but if _he_ wanted me to get him, it was nothing compared to how much _I_ wanted to. And naively or not, it did make me feel special. I felt privileged to be a new friend, privy to what must have been the most horrific period of Kurt's life. To be trusted with that reminiscence.

I gnawed my lip for a moment, then looked up at him, "I'm pretty sure if that had happened to me I'd be a far more negative person."

He laughed, "I told you, it doesn't make it okay for me to be an asshole. For all I know I'd be just as volatile even if it hadn't happened. I get angry, I take it out on other people. I'm sure you do the same sometimes. You just don't have the wonderful excuse of grievous bodily harm to fall back on."

"No." I smiled, "Lucky me."

Kurt obviously couldn't realise that I'd rather some across as irrationally hostile than divulge my own demons.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asked warmly.

"Am _I _okay?" I snorted.

"It's not exactly _Goldilocks and the Three Bears_, Blaine." He said, "You're not upset or anything?"

"No." I said slowly, "I'm a pissed off that you had to go through that, but I guess I'm about three years late to be of any use."

"It's still gratifying." He smirked.

I tapped the side of my cup distractedly, "Thanks for telling me."

"Thanks for listening." He shrugged, "It's kind of heavy, as far as party conversation goes."

"Are you kidding me?" I scoffed, "I can't remember the last time I went to a party and didn't get roped into a deep and meaningful. It's like a breeding ground."

"I'm sorry if I bored you." He slapped my leg with the back of his hand.

I rolled my eyes sarcastically, "Yeah, because that's what I meant."

"Well, as long as we're still on that road…" Kurt cleared his throat, "I'm going to go see Cedric tomorrow."

"You decided that just now?" I asked, incredulous.

"Mm." He sipped his drink, "You were right. I should go and sort things out with him."

I held my breath, "Patch things up?"

"Maybe." He was quiet for a while, "Blaine, I don't know why I don't dump him, but I'm not going to pretend that I will. I doubt that I'll somehow come up with a concrete reason between now and tomorrow, and I think it's pretty clear that I'm not exactly decisive as far as he's concerned."

It was deplorable for me to want to see the end of a relationship for personal gain, but I honestly thought that Kurt would be better off without Cedric, whatever his motives for staying with him.

I reached out tentatively and squeezed his arm to get his attention, "I know you don't like advice. I don't like giving it either… but, from what you've told me you already have some pretty sensible reasons."

He gazed down at the spot where my hand had been, "Yeah. We'll see."

We were both silent for a moment, suddenly jolted back to our senses by a loud call across the yard.

"Well, well, hello boys." Santana leered, sauntering towards us, "Having fun?"

"I see you've come up for air." Kurt grinned as she stood in front of us.

"For now." She waved her cell phone at us, "I got her number though."

"Not a one night stand then?" Kurt asked.

"Kurt, did you _see_ her." She pried my cup from my hand and drained the remaining inch, "I'm giving this one a trial run."

"Lucky her." Kurt shot me a sideways look, and I repressed a smirk, "What brings you out here?"

"Quinn wants you. She's leaving, and forgot her key or something. Wes already carried Rose out of here, and I'm sleeping on your couch tonight."

"Are you?" he deadpanned.

"Yes. Coming?"

Kurt turned to me, "Do you mind if I go?"

"What?" I started, "Of course not." I was thrilled that he'd asked.

We both stood, watching each other awkwardly for a second, before Kurt moved in the last couple of feet and loosely twined his arms around my neck. I stiffened, then laced my own around his middle, head spinning. It wasn't an affectionate hug. I think it was a grateful hug. A hug between friends. Nonetheless, it was a hug, and I swam in the warmth of his arms, and the scratchy wool of his coat on my skin. I smelt soap and the sweetness of grain, before forcing myself to let go and step back. It was only five seconds, but it was like an elixir. Perfect.

He smiled and handed the depleted bottle of bourbon to me, "For your liquor cabinet."

"You're too kind." I laughed.

"Don't drink it all at once." He warned.

"I won't."

"I'll see you soon then?" He said, with a trace of what I longed to be hope.

"Yeah." I nodded. "Call me."

He started walking back to the house with a wave, and I watched him go with a kind of empty sense of near satisfaction. As if I'd come so close to achieving something I desperately wanted, yet not quite close enough.

Santana took a few steps away from me, then turned and threw me an enthusiastic two handed thumbs up. I plastered a cheery grin on my face and gave her my middle finger, eliciting a loud dirty laugh from her as she cantered after Kurt, and up the back steps.

* * *

><p><em>[AN Yeah, dodgy ending. Obviously shit will get resolved later on though._

_Any questions, queries, complaints about the trigger warning being too vague, come give me a yell on tumblr: **ohmygodstopit(.)tumbr(.)com**_

_Thank you for reading, and one shiny Australian dollar to anyone who can guess who Santana's blonde is. (I may or may not actually give you a dollar...)]_


	10. Chapter 10

_[A/N Oh, hi. An update!_

_There's waaaay too much inner monologue here, but the following parts have less Blaine, more Klaine, Blaintana, other such beautiful things]_

* * *

><p>I woke the next morning and dragged my hands over my face, pulling and stretching my features, my palms scratching over two days' worth of stubble. I scrubbed at my eyes, twisting in my sheets before opening them and blinking.<p>

At first I felt ecstatic. But more than that. Deeper than that. Heavier. There was also apprehension, and suspense and my ever present hope. Oddly, in the moment I flickered from near-sleep to cognizance, all of those wayward feelings somehow manifested as a sort of clawing despair that made my stomach churn and flip. My mind scrabbled and panicked to grasp the reason behind why I felt so _shit,_ finally relaxing as it focussed on Kurt, and the party, and _Kurt_.

And the reason I'd initially felt so ecstatic.

We'd had dinner. We'd talked. He'd told me about his dad, and Santana. He'd confided in me about getting beaten up back in Lima, and we'd sat drinking in the near dark together, almost alone. We'd… shared. Where, since we'd met, I'd fumbled for an apt description of what Kurt _was _to me and what I was to him, now I thought I knew.

Kurt was my friend.

He knew next to nothing about me, and probably had no reason to think there was a great deal more below the surface, but I was content to ignore that for the time being, and marvel at the fact that not only was I friends with Kurt, but I'd _sought_ to become friends with Kurt. That was something I just didn't do. Something I usually had no _desire_ to do.

With anyone else it was a development I would no doubt take in my stride, but with Kurt… Kurt and I were _friends_, and today he was going to 'talk to Cedric.' About what, I didn't know. The night before it had seemed as though even Kurt didn't know, and that uncertainty would have been somewhat comforting to me if it wasn't equally unsettling.

I had no idea whether Kurt would be confronting him, forgiving him, or taking him back. Perhaps he'd even go out of his way to console him. I'm unsure how that option crept into the mix, what with Cedric technically being in the wrong, but I think I may have been excessively projecting my view that Kurt was that decent a person. That he would want to apologise for keeping his distance from Cedric, not from obligation, but from the goodness of his heart. A heart that somewhere along the way had displayed itself to me as the kind of thing seen on a Valentine's card. Big and red and bold. Another strange example of how completely _taken_ I was with him.

How catastrophically _gone_.

To be honest, Kurt taking Ced back again (how many times would that make it?) was an outcome that made me shudder. Not just for myself, and my own selfish interest in Kurt (though I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a factor) but for _Kurt,_ and for my solid belief that Cedric was wholly, unequivocally unworthy of him. A fact that, even in our short acquaintance, I felt he'd proven time and again.

The _best_ case scenario resulted in Kurt breaking up with Cedric, telling him that he was done with being treated like some kind of convenient consolation prize, and leaving him for good.

Actually, no… I was barely able to admit it to myself for the loathing it stirred in me, but the best case scenario would be Kurt finishing with Cedric, and falling into my waiting arms.

It was also an utterly ridiculous scenario, and one I tried not to let myself entertain for anything more than a few seconds at a time. There isn't such a thick line between hopeful and delusional, and I had no desire to skip over into the latter. To admit to _myself _that that was what I truly wanted would only be marginally better than admitting the very same to Kurt. I make a habit of never setting myself up for any kind of fall, and to hope for a conventional, or simply immediate relationship with Kurt was basically the equivalent of a leisurely dive off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

My imagination had absolutely no qualms in providing the particularly jagged rocks that would meet me at the bottom.

However, a close, laidback friendship with Kurt… that was actually something I had no problems with whatsoever (and I'm well aware of just how rare that is for me)

At some point during our chat the night before I'd resolved that I would tell Kurt I was gay. I hadn't intended to keep it from him indefinitely, and knew that to do so would be impossible, but I hadn't yet made any plans for when I would tell him. Now, though I still wasn't sure when, I was sure it would be soon. While we'd sat talking about Santana's sexual orientation, I had felt as if I'd begun exhaling. A vast stifling breath, stale and acrid, that had been trying to escape me for so long, and was still in the process of being expelled.

For the first time I'd started to see my constant secrecy as a bad thing. I'd always been aware that it wasn't an entirely _good_ thing, and almost certainly not a healthy thing, but it had always felt like a necessary thing.

With Kurt it didn't.

Once Kurt had left the party with Santana, I'd sat in the dark by myself a little longer, thinking about his violent ordeal when he was seventeen, and the fact that he'd offered up the story so willingly. It made me feel sick. Not just from what Kurt had had to endure, but for the fact that he'd endured it and come out the other side so well adjusted. He at least _seemed _well adjusted to me. He seemed magnificent, and it had made me realise how craven my own coping mechanisms were. It's true that everyone responds differently to tearing and fraying in their life, but Kurt had made me analyse just how severe my proclivity for building walls and isolating myself were.

I'd always been content with my lack of close friends. It was part of the deal I'd signed myself up for. Yet, after spending time with Kurt and seeing the wonderful people he'd surrounded himself with, and the people that had gravitated towards him, I experienced a twinge of mourning for what I didn't have. For what I'd happily, somewhat thoughtlessly denied myself. I realised that I wanted it. I wanted it with Kurt, and I wanted it with Santana, and Wes, and Quinn and all of the others. I wanted to reach a point where I wasn't buried in the extreme of segregation and denial, but edging towards some kind of happy medium. The kind of area which Kurt had apparently found.

It had been such a fierce realisation, that I'd almost been overwhelmed, unsure whether to cry or laugh or curl in on myself and desperately try to grasp the notion of changing myself for the _better_. Until I'd met Kurt, I hadn't ever thought it would be for the better, and I knew, even if Kurt didn't, (wouldn't, couldn't) that I wanted to change for him too, so that I _could_ establish a friendship with him.

A close platonic friendship held potential, yet lacked most of the possible flaws and failings of anything _more_. I could get to know him, and I could_ let _him get to know me. I still suffered pangs of fear even entertaining the thought, but I felt like it was possible I would go so far as to let him know me completely. In a way that no one had since Malcolm and I had been together.

_Possibly_.

Either way, everything would be easier without Cedric in the picture, and that was something I had absolutely no say or sway in. I'd said my piece to Kurt. I'd even dared to tell him I thought he _should_ leave Cedric, and that was as far as I was willing to push. The decision wasn't mine.

I sat up and stretched, a smile sparking on my face as I glanced across at my desk and spotted the almost empty bottle of Maker's Mark that Kurt had left with me the night before.

I wasn't particularly hung over, just a little listless, and what I really wanted wasn't hair of the dog, but coffee. I thought longingly of the half-decent percolated brew down at the cafeteria, but the prospect of having to get completely dressed and somewhat presentable (college presentable…) swiftly stalled that desire. Instead, I padded to my wardrobe, shivering as I covered my torso with a ratty grey t-shirt, and pulled a pair of sweats over my boxers. I'd have to be content with the nasty sachets of instant coffee down the hall in the kitchen on my floor. Who knew, maybe the experience would be awful enough to stir me into writing a strongly worded anonymous letter to Rachel's suggestion box outlining the reasons why we should be provided with a functioning coffee machine; a notion that was immediately stalled by the likelihood of her then complaining about it to me. I did like her, but the mere thought of it made my head ache.

I slid a pair of flip flops on and headed down the corridor, rubbing an eye and yawning as I stepped into the kitchen, unoccupied but for the tall strawberry blonde standing at the sink with a newspaper wedged under his arm.

Speak of the devil.

Cedric turned as I entered, both of us freezing like the proverbial rabbit. The more theatrical part of my brain chose that moment to conjure Ennio Morricone trumpets and the clanking sounds of spurs as we stood on either side of the room, eyeing each other. Pistols at our sides and an errant tumbleweed probably wouldn't have been out of place nor, I thought unfoundedly, would it surprise me if Cedric un-holstered said pistol, and shot me through the heart.

Apparently the theatrical portion of my brain was larger than I'd thought.

Just as our silence and inaction started to feel uncomfortably weird (Would he notice if I spun on my heel and slunk out again without a word? Probably. Damn) Cedric cleared his throat and shifted his weight.

"Blaine." He said stiffly.

"Hi, Cedric."

I wasn't quite able to keep my disdain from my voice, but I at least thought I was safe in the knowledge that he was under the impression that my disdain stemmed from him being an offensive, drunken dick head, rather than the supplementary source that was him holding some place (how big a place I didn't know) in Kurt's affections.

Since the disastrous dinner party, my aversion to Cedric had been frustrating me more than Cedric himself. If he was an asshole who treated Kurt well, I could have simply disliked him for being an asshole and been grudgingly happy for Kurt. If he treated Kurt badly, yet was polite to me, I could have disliked him on the basis that he was a bad boyfriend. The complication was that he seemed to be both, and I _was_ repulsed by that, and childishly annoyed that he was in a relationship with Kurt, but I also resented him for every time Kurt had taken him back despite his glaring, unforgivable failings. That, and the fact that he had the nerve to still treat Kurt badly once forgiven. I hated it, and I _hated, hated, hated _that I _let_ myself hate it. It just made it all the more difficult to hammer into my head that all I should seek from Kurt was friendship.

And of course, on top of all that he was still a drunken dick head. I desperately wished that that relatively straight forward reason was the only one behind my distaste.

Still rooted to the spot, he took in my scruffy hair and no doubt hooded eyes, "You look like you had a big night."

I smiled painfully, "Not really. I just got up."

From anyone else I'd have taken his observation as nothing more than that, but I was absolutely fine with twisting it into a veiled insult and adding it to my list of reasons why he was a perfectly put together douchebag.

Then again… the term 'perfectly put together' wasn't quite applying to him at present. There were rings under his eyes, and his shoulders were a little hunched, his hair a little flat. I'd have pointed out his hypocrisy if I had any actual desire to converse with him. While I wasn't exactly sympathetic of his uncharacteristically rough appearance, I can't say I wasn't curious of its cause.

We blinked at each other for a moment longer, silently appraising, when he jerked his arm in the vague direction of the counter top.

"The kettle's just boiled. If… that's what you're after. You know… coffee."

Okay, unexpected. I raised an eyebrow, "I look that bad?"

He shrugged one shoulder, "I can't function without a cup in the morning. I, um… I sometimes forget that most people's veins are filled with blood, not caffeine."

"Not in college." I said slowly. I hadn't expected this. This was amiable. This was borderline friendly, with a side of awkward and stilted.

He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot for a second, "Listen… Blaine, the other night…" He said slowly.

"The other night when you were a complete asshole to me in front of your friends for absolutely no reason?"

"Yeah, that night." He paused, "And as far as 'friends,' you mustn't have been picking up on the same vibes as I do… I mean, apart from Kurt."

I'm not sure what 'vibes' he'd been getting from Kurt up until the moment I'd left, but from my vantage point they hadn't been particularly friendly. I bit down that thought, and murmured, "Well, I wasn't exactly counting Santana when I said it, but go on."

"Mm, 'cause the other's clearly adore me, too." He murmured, eyes averted.

I shrugged. I couldn't tell if that was meant as a simple statement of fact, or a hunt for sympathy, but I wasn't about to gift him with the latter.

"Anyway… I was a jerk." He blurted.

"Yep."

"And I feel like it's probably best if I make amends for it, given that it seems like you'll be sticking around. No hard feelings?"

He said it stiffly, and looked impressively uncomfortable. I didn't sense much sincerity behind his words, but then again, I didn't sense a great deal of emotion at all. Maybe he did just want to bury the hatchet, however shallowly.

I furrowed my brow, "What _were_ your hard feelings, anyway?"

"I was drunk." He said shortly, shrugging one shoulder as if that explained everything.

"Yeah, and if you treated every random stranger like that when you're drunk, I'm pretty sure you'd never be without a black eye."

He pursed his lips, "I don't hate you, if that's what you're worried about."

His tone of voice contradicted his statement, low and detached. I opened and closed my mouth a couple of times, at a complete loss for words, frantically trying to figure out his intentions.

"No, I'm… I'm not _worried _about anything, I just don't understand why you went out of your way to make _me_ want to hate you when you'd only ever met me twice."

He exhaled, glancing at the ceiling in apparent frustration, "Look, I dunno. I was just swinging my dick around, okay? What do you want me to say?"

He was being confusingly evasive, considering he'd started the conversation, but I had a feeling I knew the grievance he was skirting around.

I took a calming breath, "Cedric… Kurt and I… we're just friends."

"And that's all you want." It wasn't a question, and his eyes didn't leave mine.

I swallowed, the back of my neck prickling ominously, "What are you talking about?"

"I'm Kurt's boyfriend. More than that, he's way too good for me. I know that. I dunno what your story is, and I have no idea which way you swing. I don't care, but I saw you sitting next to him, and fuck… I got jealous."

A wave of uneasiness travelled up my back and settled in my chest, and while my face remained passive, I could feel the sweat forming on my palms and itching under my arms.

I cleared my throat, indescribably glad that my voice came out steadily, "Do you behave that way when you see Kurt sitting next to David? Or any other guy, for that matter?"

He shrugged, "I guess I do, yeah."

"You don't trust Kurt?"

"No, it's… it's more that I'm pretty sure doesn't trust me. It's not like I've ever given him a reason not to cheat on me."

I laughed once, harshly. I couldn't help it, and he hadn't deterred me with his indirect choice of words, "_You_ don't trust Kurt."

He gritted his teeth, "I didn't say –"

I cut in loudly, "Cedric, if he's going to mess around behind your back, it's not going to be with me."

"I honestly have no reason to think he won't." He muttered resignedly.

Apparently he thought that because he'd repeatedly indulged in infidelity, Kurt was just waiting to pay him back in kind. I wondered again why the two of them were even still together, staring silently for a moment, my mouth hanging open, before I decided I'd already learnt more about him than I cared to know.

"Okay. No," I shook my head, "I don't think I can have this conversation. I don't know you, and I don't know Kurt well enough, but I know I respect him, and I'm really not having this conversation with you."

"Fine." He said lightly.

We stood in silence for a moment, before I blurted, "He won't cheat on you."

"You're entitled to think that."

I laughed exasperatedly, looking at the ceiling, inwardly panicking, "He won't cheat on you with _me_."

He raised an eyebrow, "Because he doesn't want to, or because you're too noble?"

I spluttered, desperate to get out of our discussion, and losing control of it by the second, falling to pieces, "You don't _know_ me!"

"You're _not_ gay?" He asked.

_How did he know? Did he know?_

"You don't know me, Cedric." I said slowly and clearly, breathing deep and steady, "Let's leave it at that."

"You realise as long as I'm with Kurt you're going to have to spend time around me." He said airily.

I decided to just keep a constant look of disbelief on my face to save time, "Is that some kind of ultimatum? What are you getting at?"

"I'm not saying we have to be friends," He was suddenly businesslike, "In fact right now that outcome probably seems just as unlikely to you as it does to me, but you will have to put up with me."

Oh, I just disliked him more by the second. I was almost prepared to be thankful that he'd given me more just reason to.

"And I suppose you'll have to put up with me." I shrugged, voice raising faintly as I spoke, "I _like_ Kurt. He's a good guy, and I already see him as… as a good friend, but I don't need you side eyeing me for wanting to get to know him. Just give it a rest. I could do without drama for the sake of drama, and I have no interest in your interest in Kurt."

The words sounded like a lie even as I spoke them, and I didn't doubt Cedric's disbelief in them for a second, but I didn't owe him anything, and I was perfectly honest in my lack of desire to play an _active_ part in the successes or failures of their relationship thereon.

I'd simply be watching very closely.

He stared intently at me, nodding with a curious smile on his face, more like a wince, "Yep, okay. Sure."

I remained fixed to the spot while he looked around for a second, eventually walking past me and out the door without another word.

I could have collapsed, instead letting out a massive breath of air. Whether it was because he could see through me, or that at some point I'd slipped and given him something to see that made it obvious that it had feelings for Kurt, I didn't know. Maybe he was just jumping to a conclusion that happened to be the right one, but either way, it unnerved me. The thought that I was unable to dictate my appearance to someone was an uncommon one, and I couldn't say I liked it. I wouldn't have liked it from an acquaintance, let alone him. He may not have hated me, but I felt he'd have very little problem interfering with me.

I stared across the kitchen at the electric kettle for a full minute before exiting the room myself, no longer craving any kind of food or drink. I walked back to my dorm and grabbed a towel and my shower supplies before heading to the bathroom, stripping off, and stepping under a scalding stream of water.

Cedric had said Kurt wouldn't cheat with me because I was too noble to let anything happen, but that wasn't it. I suppose it may have been part of the reason, but I think the more straight forward (and complicated) one was that I was too fucked up. Unable to keep from overthinking everything, too jaded, too spineless. I also sincerely thought Kurt wouldn't cheat on Ced even if he did suddenly develop feelings for me, and most of all, I didn't want him to cheat on Ced. He was too good for that.

I absently scrubbed shampoo through my hair, sluggishly trying to get my head around the rest of our confrontation. Cedric knew I was gay. He'd said he hadn't, and that he didn't care either way, but he _knew_. He could tell without knowing me at all. _He'd _figured it out, _Santana_ had figured it out. Who else? The rest of Kurt's friends? Kurt? The idea itself didn't bother me, but as always, I wanted to be the one to break the news.

I'd never had trouble keeping my homosexuality from anyone when I wanted to, and the only conclusion I could come to for my abrupt inability to mask it, the only variable between Albarn and Ohio, was Kurt. I hadn't had a _crush_ on someone since I'd been with Malcolm in high school, and while I didn't want to use such a superficial word to describe what I felt for Kurt, I'd apparently been more obvious in my affections than I'd thought. How many longing glances had I given him? How often had I watched him too closely for slightly too long? Laughed too loudly at a joke, or blushed too obviously at an offence or brief moment of shared physical contact? I could mostly control my emotional and intellectual responses around him, but I had little to no control over my physiological reactions. Apparently they'd been merrily betraying me all along.

Yeah, I just wanted us to be_ friends_.

Why was I even _trying_ fool myself? Why bother?

I stepped out of the shower, drying myself quickly and securing a towel around my waist, hurrying back to my room. I had to tell Kurt I was gay, if only so I could get to him before Cedric chose to let it slip, no doubt 'accidentally.' I wanted it to be on my terms, and I wanted to be able to answer whatever questions he then put to me. He'd almost certainly want to know why I'd kept it from him at all, and I wanted to be available to explain.

As I pulled on a pair of black jeans I glanced at my cell phone on my desk, noting two new messages. I ran the towel roughly through my curls before picking it up, my heart jumping into my throat as I took in Kurt's name and their received times of ten and five minutes earlier. I opened the first, nervous butterflies in my stomach.

_I'm outside with Santana. If you aren't passed out in a nest of your own filth, you should come and have breakfast with me._

Despite my tension, I laughed, unable to keep an affectionate grin off my face. I opened the second.

_Blaaaaaine…? Delicious breakfast?_

My smile grew even broader, and I couldn't help the small squeak that jumped from my throat as I replied. How could a text be cute?

_I know you're blessed with off campus accommodation, but just so you know, us dorm rats don't actually sleep in nests._

I found a clean red polo shirt, pulling it on before I received a second text.

_Oh, good, you're conscious. Coming?_

I wildly looked around for a belt and a pair of shoes.

_Yeah, I'll be there in a minute._

I bent to peer in the small mirror on my wall, ineffectively patting at my unruly hair for a moment before giving up and glancing at my gel. Screw it. Too time consuming. I could cope with Kurt seeing me a little ruffled for once, grabbing my pea coat as I rushed out my door (faster than I'd like to admit) to meet him.

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><p><em>[AN Oh, lame place to cut it. I feel pretty guilty at the lack of Kurt in this part, but he'll be back with a vengeance from here on.  
><em>

_Unrelated... tonight I realised I'd be a lot less confused most of the time if the characters I wrote weren't so confusing. Blaaaaaaaaaine!_

_Bron xx]_


	11. Chapter 11  A

[_A/N *insert gif of me weeping* Today is the day that my laptop decided to stop just making scary metal-on-metal scraping sounds, and actually stop turning on altogether. I'm praying that it settles down and works again by morning, but in the mean time, I've stolen my housemate's and I'm posting the first 4000-ish words of this 8000-ish word chapter... because I've only edited three quarters of it and this is a surprisingly symmetrical place to cut it._

_Anyway, I'm going into uni tomorrow (on a weekend... I can't remember the last time I did that) and I'm going to edit and post the next half by Sunday. Good use of my uni fees, right? I think so... thank you to Kyra for being fabulous and putting up with my crap to beta once again. She should pretty much have joint credit on this fic by now._]

* * *

><p>I stepped outside to a slight breeze of clean fall air, and that odd sort of pressure that fills the atmosphere before rain. That feeling of nature anticipating its own changes. The weather holding its breath before blowing it out and gasping and gasping.<p>

I spotted Kurt, surprised to see him standing with his chest pressed against a large elm, hugging it with one arm and peering around it. I stared at his back, his navy blue coat stretched across his broad shoulders, until he turned, the flat slap of my feet on the damp grass alerting him to my approach.

His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling as he beckoned animatedly for me to join him. Under his coat, he was wearing a red and white striped top, and tight navy blue jeans, black Doc Martens on his feet. A few strands of hair were flitting around his eyes, and for a second I wildly thought, 'he looks like a _sailor_,' swallowing the lump that had formed in my throat at the sight of him looking so gloriously unstructured. So _free_.

I don't think I'd seen him looking quite like that since the first time I'd spotted him on the commons, arm in arm with Quinn as he sang, and nothing but an intriguing stranger to me. His eyes were _so_ bright, somehow more alive. My breath caught slightly as I realised I wanted to sweep him into my arms, have him sweep me into his arms, and kiss him on his coral pink mouth. His hair fluttering on my cheeks, and his pulse strong against my palm on his warm neck.

Up until that point all of the small urges and impulses I'd felt towards Kurt had been manageable. Little spidery cracks that could be plastered over and hidden. Never had they been so vivid, and never had they created such a fracture. The kind that, no matter how carefully restored, would still be visible if studied for any length of time. He lifted a hand to brush a hair from his cheek, and I sharply decided that I'd reached a point where they weren't worth repairing. More cracks would come, more often and far deeper, and the amount of energy required to conceal them, already considerable, would become so draining as to be unbearable. I could strive to divert the eye from them, but I could no longer try to ignore them.

Seeing him in the bright light of morning, so solid and present and somehow astonishingly enhanced and even more wonderful than the Kurt of my mind, I wondered if he'd eventually cause me to simply fall to pieces.

I mentally shook and steeled myself, and once a couple of metres away, I asked, "What are you-" only for him to cut me off.

"Shh!" He hissed, grinning and beckoning, "Come here."

He turned back to the tree, and it took all my strength to remind myself that I couldn't crowd in behind him, slide my arms around his waist, and rest my chin on his wool clad shoulder.

_God_, I wanted to.

Yet another crack.

Instead, I huddled into the opposite side of the tree, my arm brushing his for a moment, and felt a huge unstoppable grin settle on my face as I peered out across the commons in search of whatever it was Kurt was watching.

"So… what are we doing?" I asked.

"Look over by admin. Miss Lopez is having a _rendezvous_." He sang, somehow managing to make the last word sound incredibly filthy.

I laughed, every trace of frustration from my chat with Cedric blissfully dissolving. This was a childlike, playful side of Kurt that I'd only had brief glimpses of in the past. There had been a couple of times at both of our dinners when it had seemed like he'd been on the verge of it. Laughter simmering below the surface and longing to bubble up and spill over, only to withdraw to wherever it had stemmed from. Seeing it unbridled, whatever the reason behind it, was like a balm. So irresistibly _sweet_, I couldn't help but relax.

I quickly spotted Santana, standing in the doorway to the building with the tall blonde she'd been kissing at the party the night before. A peal of breathless laughter met us, and as I watched, she tucked her hair behind her ear, glancing up through her lashes and smiling bashfully. She may as well have been a completely different woman to the Santana I was acquainted with. In fact, this Santana looked less like a _woman, _and more like a _girl. _Unsure and coy and calm. I already knew that there was more to her than the brash surface she projected, but her soft eyes and the coquettish tilt to her hip were entirely new.

"She's flirting." I whispered elatedly.

Kurt snorted, "You say that like you're surprised."

"No, I mean, _look _at her," I laughed, "She's shy."

"Nervous." Kurt sighed dreamily.

I rested my forehead on the bark of the tree and squeezed my eyes shut, "Okay, do you suddenly feel like a prying on something really private?"

"A little," Kurt stood up straight again, "But if it means I get to grill her about this later, then I can deal with that."

I moved back too, making sure I was out of sight, "Did they arrange to meet?"

"I don't think so. We were walking down here to fetch you, and the girl… whoever she is, called out to Santana. She blushed harder than I've_ ever _seen, which I so wanted to tease her about, but she skipped off and told me not to wait up. _Skipped_."

I smirked, "She didn't tell you not to spy, though."

"I _love _loopholes." Kurt grinned, sneaking another glance at them.

After a minute of silent surveillance, Santana reached out, squeezing the other girls arm affectionately. To my delight, and Kurt's barely contained vocal delight, the blonde went one step further, leaning forward and pecking Santana on the cheek, finally turning and walking away with a wave.

Santana spun somewhat giddily and scanned the commons. We didn't have a chance to make ourselves inconspicuous before she located us, her sudden scowl obvious even from a distance.

"Oh my god, she's going to kill us," I whispered, jumping back and grasping Kurt's shoulder before I could stop myself, "Today is the day we both die."

"Shh, don't worry," he clutched my arm in both hands, his teeth showing in a pure smile, eyes crinkling, "She wouldn't kill me, and I like you too much to let anything happen to you. Besides, if she did kill you, I'd have to kill her, and then I'd be down two perfectly good friends. It'd be such a waste."

I gazed distractedly at his hands for a second, then back up at his eyes, "I feel like a Scooby Doo character."

He stared at me, eventually ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to and failing to muffle his laughter, all gasps and shaking shoulders and dazzling mirth.

Oh, I was so screwed.

I reluctantly let go of his shoulder when Santana crept into my periphery, in no state to deal with the knowing looks and Cheshire Cat grins that she'd no doubt bombard me with if he had the reason. We both composed ourselves as best we could, Kurt's breathing still a little heavy, his chest rising and falling erratically as we turned to face Santana, our best blank, innocent expressions in place. We must have looked like little kids, _swearing_ we didn't eat the cookies that were cooling on the windowsill, despite the tell-tale crumbs on our collars.

She stopped about two metres away, glaring, then pointing to us one after the other.

"Fuck you. Fuck you," she deadpanned, "Let's go get some breakfast."

Kurt let out one last weak_ cough_ of laughter, glancing at me with wide, slightly damp eyes, and we fell into step behind her, hurrying to keep up as she powered towards the cafeteria without a backward glance.

Kurt cleared his throat and casually said, "So, we're keeping this one are we?"

Santana glanced over her shoulder, the most impossibly imperious look on her face, "I haven't decided yet."

"Who is she?" I asked.

"None of your business."

I snorted derisively as we drew level with her, "Oh?"

She furrowed her brow at me, "_What_, Blaine?"

"Nothing," I said airily, "I know how you feel about interfering in other people's love lives. You're right. It's _none of my business_."

She stared at me, and for a second I thought she was going to smile, eventually looking away quickly and snapping, "Brittany Pierce."

"Well, you know her name," Kurt smirked, oblivious to the reason behind our sniping, "I suppose that's a start."

"Yeah, fuck you again," Santana murmured, "She's a dance student here."

"Are you going to see her again?" I asked.

"Yes."

Kurt bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling, "Are you going to introduce us?"

Santana stopped at the entrance to the cafeteria, turning to us and shouting, "Oh my _god_, what are you my _parents_? We're changing the topic," she paused and smirked, "Dads."

Kurt snorted as she aggressively shouldered through into the cafeteria leaving the two of us outside. Eventually he opened the door and turned to me, still grinning that playful grin he seemed intent on wearing all morning, "After you, dear."

For a second I thought I was going to choke, just managing to stop myself. To Kurt his words were just an appropriately playful tease in the playful ambiance. There was no way for him to know just how deep the word_ dear _would demolish me as it fell from _his_ lips, so I smiled tightly and hoped I wasn't blushing, sliding through the door with a brave, quiet, "Thank you, dear."

We joined Santana at the end of the line, shuffling forwards in silence. Kurt and Santana bought little containers of fruit salad that look surprisingly uncontaminated for pre-packaged college food, and I got one for myself, simply because I suddenly found that I was completely incapable of thinking in any kind of straight line. I probably would have bought a raw steak had someone offered it to me.

The buoyant mood that Kurt had leant me was trying its best to deflate in light of the task ahead. I felt like I was about come out to my parents all over again. Pacing in my bedroom and starting every time a car passed the house, thinking it was them pulling into the drive, chatting about work and money and having no idea that their only son was about to sit them down and voluntarily alter their opinion of him. It was the first time in a long, _long_ time that the act had held that much gravity to me. I _cared_ what he thought, and I didn't expect a negative response, but I wasn't holding out for ticker tape and balloons either. Until I'd said the words to Kurt, 'I'm gay,'and got some sort of reassuring response, a smile, a squeeze of my hand… him not yelling, _you fucking idiot, why didn't you tell me?, _then my stomach was doomed to be tied in little nauseating knots.

We paid for our food, and distracted and sweaty-palmed or not, my eyes honed on the little refreshment bar a short way down from the cash register. Coffee. Caffeine. I still hadn't had any since I woke, and I sure as hell didn't need to add to my jitters, but _God, help me_, I wanted it anyway.

I made a beeline for it, asking, "You guys want coffee?"

Kurt nodded, "Please."

"I'll help you," Santana said quickly, following me along to the end of the counter, "Kurt? Get us a table?"

"Uh huh." He nodded, wandering off.

Free coffee was one of those very few free on-campus luxuries that ended up meaning the world to every last food and sleep deprived student at Albarn. There were three percolators in the cafeteria that were pretty much on constant rotation from open 'til close, emptying swiftly as people trudged through with mugs and thermoses, or used the paper cups provided, the option for a coin contribution there for anyone who didn't need every last cent for ramen and beer. I tossed a couple of quarters in the donation can before grabbing three cups and passing one along to Santana, who'd sidled up right next to me, obviously itching to say something I didn't want to hear.

"Go on," I sighed, "Get it out."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She smiled sweetly.

"I'm sure."

We leant on the counter, waiting for the latest pot to finish brewing.

After a moment she said, "You're less surprised that I'm courting a girl than I thought you'd be."

"Courting?" I laughed.

She shrugged, "In my head it seemed more polite than 'fucking'"

"Oh, so it's _just sex._" I deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

"Ugh, shut up," she elbowed me weakly, "No, it's not. Britt's really sweet."

"You like her."

"Yes, dad."

"Still not your dad."

"Yes, mum."

"Ha ha."

"Anyway," she pinched my arm, "like I said, less surprise than I was expecting."

I hummed, "Remember who you're talking to? Mr Selectively Closeted?"

She glared at me, then said quietly, "Yeah, I remember. Which is why I know you'd hate it if anyone ever called you that, so don't do it to yourself. Okay?"

I put my arm around her shoulders for a second, and squeezed, "Kay. And yeah, when pretty much every last one of your friends thought you wanted to sleep with me, I _was_ under the impression that you liked your company male, but that kind of raced out the door when I saw you making out with Brittany in a crowd of drunk students last night," I hesitated, "Kurt filled me in on the rest. I hope you don't mind."

"Nah, it's cool," she scrunched her nose, "I'd have told you eventually, I guess. Anyway, I haven't exactly _sworn off_ machismo…" she said slowly, "Let's just say I'm fluid."

"If that's you want." I agreed.

I grabbed a couple of packets of sugar from a basket, and shook them distractedly.

"How does Kurt take his coffee?" I asked.

Santana laughed, a short, rough bark.

I furrowed my eyebrows at her, "See, maybe I'm weird, but that question didn't strike me as funny."

She pursed her lips, eyes shining, and crooned, "You're in love with him and you don't even know his coffee order."

I dropped the sugar packets, quickly falling to my knees to retrieve them, rising with a scowl, "Don't just… _say_ that."

"What?"

"_Love_." I hissed, "You just _throw it out_ like that, and I… just, don't. Okay?"

Her eyes widened, mouth slightly open, "Shit, I was only joking, Blaine, but now I'm not so sure."

"Well you probably have about as much idea as I do, so congratulations."

"Do you?" she asked, gently, "Love him?"

It was a hell of a question. Every sensible shred of myself wanted to answer with, 'don't be absurd,' and every slightly rebellious one (and apparently _they_ were multiplying by the hour) shrugged and asked, 'sure, why not?' The loneliest, most secluded part whispered, 'don't love again, it's dangerous, remember?' I squeezed my eyes shut and ignored them all.

"How can I?" I exhaled, "I barely know him. He knows me even less. And I'm a fucking emotional disaster, so I'm not sure I'd know it even if I could get my head around what I feel about him."

"Hey," she said softly, "I think that's the most internal insight you've ever willingly given me. Well done."

I couldn't tell if she was being intentionally patronising or not, "What am I, six?"

"The most fucked up six year old on the planet."

"You better believe it." I murmured.

"One day you're gonna tell me why you're so fucked up, right?"

My stomach lurched at the prospect.

"Please don't hold your breath."

"I promise I won't suffocate on your behalf," she said, her voice returning to its brisk norm, "But I'm just gonna get this straight for both of us, and say there's reason everyone whines about love being fickle, so you can stop hiding behind this, 'but we only just met,' bullshit, and admit that there's a distinct possibility that you love our Mr Hummel, whether you're in any state to do so or not."

I stared at her, my jaw hanging slack, struck silent by a lack of any other appropriate reaction that didn't involve shaking my head and walking away.

Once I found my voice again, I hissed, "You realise that I _agonise_ about this stuff, and you stating it simply like that doesn't make it simple."

"What part of that was simple?" She laughed loudly, the sound echoing conspicuously off the high ceilings and causing me to look for Kurt in some kind of weird fear that he'd instinctively know what we were talking about, "It hardly even made any sense as I was fucking saying it. I'm just _saying_, Jesus Christ, Blaine, maybe you don't have to agonise so much. It's clearly not making anything any more comprehensible to you. You don't think maybe you're wasting your time?"

I thought_, Yes. But I need it._

Out loud I said, more eloquently, alarmingly truthfully, and somewhat resignedly, "If it makes the fact that I'm tragically smitten with a gorgeous boy who thinks I'm straight any more manageable, then no. I don't think it's a waste of time."

She punched me in the shoulder, smiling broadly, "I should get you mad more often. It's makes you honest."

"I'm not mad," I murmured, looking at my feet, "You're awful. I don't like you."

"Yeah, you do." She grabbed a cup from me and filled it, snatching a couple of sugars for herself, "So… you and Kurt were talking for a long time last night. How'd that go?"

"You haven't asked him yet?" I expected her to have interrogated him every which way.

"Didn't have time," she waggled her eyebrows, "Too busy doing romancing of my own."

I laughed, then nodded slowly, "It went… well. I'm pretty sure it went really well."

"Told him yet?"

I didn't need to ask if she was referring to whether I'd come out to him or not.

"Nope."

"God, you were together for hours!" she squawked, "What _did_ you talk about?"

I tipped my head from side to side in a noncommittal way, "This and that," I picked that the lip of one of the cups, "You know everything about his… his past, right?"

"Most of the things that matter," she said quietly, "He told you about landing in hospital, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

"You okay?" She poked my hand, trying to catch my eye.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," I smiled weakly, "It was just… you know, a lot."

"Tell me about it." She shook her head.

I took the jug of coffee from her, busying myself with it before asking, "How is he still standing?"

She sighed expansively, propping her elbows on the counter, "I could ask the same of you. You seem a little wobbly on your feet, at least."

I was still erring on the edge of being impressed or slightly disconcerted by just how perceptive Santana could be, "I guess so. I didn't get my head bashed in though."

"It's all about context, I suppose," she murmured, "Your issues, whatever they are, aren't any less important to _you_ just because Kurt's seem worse. It pisses me off that there are so many people who'll tell you to stop licking your 'imaginary wounds,' just because somewhere else someone has it worse. How the fuck are you ever supposed to come to terms with something if you're always being told to harden the up and get over it?" she looked at me, "There's nothing wrong with hurting. Everyone has their ways of dealing with the bad stuff. As long as you make it out the other side and try your best not to fuck anyone else up in the process, who cares what it takes to get you there. Kurt does a good job of coming across like he is, but I honestly don't even know if he's there yet," she peered at me, "You sure as shit aren't. Which is why you've both got me."

I swallowed around the tennis ball sized lump in my throat and hoped that the prickling in my eyes wasn't manifesting into tears, "Do you moonlight as a Hallmark greeting card writer?"

She smirked, "Asshole."

"Thank you." I whispered.

"No need to thank me. You were an asshole when I met you."

"I mean it, Santana." I covered her hand with my own and squeezed.

"So did I." She looked down, eventually turning her hand palm up and returning the pressure, "I gather it isn't something you're used to, but I've got your back. Whether you want it or not."

I took a deep breath, "I'm kind of surprised by how much I do want it."

She cocked her head, "Aw… you're so messed up."

I gave a feeble smirk, "I've got to give you something to work with."

"Does that mean you _want_ my help now?"

"Again with that word. Your definition of help is so much broader than mine."

"Okay, then. Let me in on your brilliant plan for snagging Kurt." She held her fingers up, counting off, "Step one: Make doe eyes. Step two: Try to incinerate Cedric with the strength of your scowl. Step three: Cry into your pillow. Rinse and repeat. And for the record, step two doesn't work. I've tried. Countless times."

"I'm going to tell him I'm gay." I said.

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly, "Is that step four, or are you actually going to make it a priority?"

"No, I'll do it soon."

"Like _now_ soon?"

I took a vast breath, deciding, "Yes."

"Are you going to tell him you like him?"

I snorted, "Baby steps."

"So…" she bit her lip, "soon…"

"Yes."

"Really?"

I groaned, "Shit, Santana. Yes."

"Mhm… because in the short time since I met you, you haven't been at all prone to putting off challenging encounters."

"Yeah, yeah, you know me so well." I violently tore a bunch of sugar packets open, accidentally spraying little granules all over my hands.

"Blaine, I can read you like a book." Santana said, clearly trying not to laugh at my newfound uncoordination, "This particular page turner is titled, 'I have a tortured past and I'd rather deal with it myself, even though I'm clearly incapable of doing so.' I've read it a thousand times. Can't say it's a favourite."

"Then why do you even care?" I snapped, dusting the counter off.

"Because there's a sequel." She said matter-of-factly, "'My heart belongs to Kurt Hummel, but I'm too afraid to show it.' It's a little tawdry in places. Otherwise, it's really sweet. And in case you were wondering, it has a nauseatingly happy ending."

"Really?" I mumbled, petulantly, "I heard it ends in heartbreak and embarrassment."

"I don't know who your sources are, but they're full of shit."

"No, they're realistic."

"Pessimistic."

"You're so clever."

"I am." She chirped, "And I'm right. I care about you guys, and it's a fucked up trip to Bizarro World when I'm _not _the most sceptical soul in the room. How about for once you stop thinking about what's _best_ for your fragile little heart, and try doing something that's actually good for it."

I narrowed my eyes at her, jaw tight, realising that there was pretty much nothing she could say to me anymore that I had it in me to be genuinely offended by. She was still disconcertingly skilled at putting me on my back foot though, so I decided to see how much it took to throw her.

"Tell me about Brittany."

She did freeze momentarily, but to her credit, only for a second, "What, not even a segue?"

I crossed my arms, "I like to get straight to the point."

"Good to know," she droned, "Take Kurt his coffee and get to work on putting that into practice."

I figured it was _just _below my dignity to whimper out loud, "Santana..."

"Please, Blaine. You'll be fine, and it'll be one less thing for you to lock up and dwell on. I don't think I can stand another minute of watching you melt into a puddle of nervous pining and repression." She looked over by the floor to ceiling windows where Kurt was sat, tapping his fingers and gazing out across the commons, "He's not an idiot. You think he won't start to notice on his own?"

She planted a kiss on my cheek that could only be described as angry, before turning on her heel and stalking from the room with a shouted farewell to Kurt.


	12. Chapter 11 B

_[A/N Oh my god... every time I write one of these important Kurt/Blaine conversations I'm like, 'phew, that's possibly the hardest thing I've had to write so far. Thank god it can't get any more difficult.' HA! I had to dance around my room to Green Onions for ten minutes after I finished just to come back to the real world._

_Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoy. x]_

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><p>Santana never did tell me how Kurt took his coffee, so I snatched a few extra sugars and lingered for a second, a cup in each hand, before taking a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies having a rave in my stomach, and walking over to Kurt.<p>

I also may have reminded myself not to vomit.

"Where's she off to?" Kurt asked, face upturned and eyes a surprising shade of green in the sunlight.

I seated myself opposite, slid Kurt his coffee and tried to think of an excuse, settling on, "I have no idea." My brain too busy with the mission ahead of me to come up with anything better.

"Just you and me then."

I swallowed, "Yup."

If it weren't for the fact that I was finally going to start offering Kurt pieces of the truth about me, I couldn't have thought of anywhere I'd rather have been. Sitting together, one on one, free to talk about any little inconsequential thing we chose, and free for me to watch his eyes crinkle when he smiled, or the way he sometimes carelessly twirled one hand in the air while he spoke. The sound of his voice, high as birds sometimes, or rumbling in a disarmingly low way, distant thunder.

Unfortunately we'd somehow managed to get the whole process of friendship backwards, and instead of spending a couple of months politely chatting about our favourite movies and songs, or what pets we had when we were kids, we'd already skipped to divulging the deep and dark. Mostly my fault, I know, but it still felt a little strange.

And wonderfully _right_.

It felt portentous. Our unusual almost instant camaraderie. I realise that feeling was contrived. I wasn't falling for him because I was miraculously willing to be honest with him. I was willing to be honest with him because I was falling for him, and because he was honest with _me_. He hadn't just sprung out of the ground with the sole purpose of helping me learn to be comfortable with myself… but gazing at him, his pale hands curled around a cup of watery coffee, I could almost believe that he had.

He tore just one packet of sugar open and sprinkled it in his drink, and I meticulously filed it away for future reference.

He swirled the cup a little and exhaled dramatically, "My pointless arts degree for a Starbucks."

My grin was so broad my cheeks ached, "I think that'd buy you enough caffeine to kill an army."

"Blaine, have you _seen_ their prices?" He waved a hand, smiling, "A small army. New Zealand, maybe. Or I could buy a franchise and put it out of business with all the freebies I help myself to. You'd get friend discounts, too."

"Well in that case," I chuckled, "Maybe it'd be worth it."

"Definitely ." He took a sip of his coffee and winced a little, "I sometimes ask myself why I left a small town to come to an even smaller, _colder_ town."

"Why did you?"

He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged, "This small town's beautiful."

"It is." I said softly, aware that I was staring at his mouth as he spoke. I altered my gaze to catch his eye instead, which proved even more perilously captivating.

He was apparently one of those people who can carry on a conversation while comfortably keeping eye contact, not looking away bashfully or blinking or blushing. It made me feel exposed, in an unpredictably pleasant kind of way. With him, it sort of just made me dimly think, _go ahead, spot my blemishes and faults. I want you to. _The idea of him seeing them didn't induce blind terror in me anymore, but a kind of rollercoaster adrenaline. That little thrilling jolt where you're aware of the possible risks behind something, but too interested in the outcome to care.

He nodded, continuing, "For a while I had my heart set on going to New York. I dunno, I'll probably still go there when I'm finished here. When there's less chance of me just… melting into the crowds. I feel like I still have some growing up to do before I can be sure that won't happen." He slid an empty sugar packet around with the tip of his finger, "I think I needed to come here first to prove to myself that just because every town can't be like New York, it doesn't mean they're automatically going to be like Lima."

I understood a little, if not entirely. I imagined myself being able to pick Kurt out in a crowd of thousands, singular and vibrant, glowing like a beacon. I knew what it felt like to not view yourself that way though, "Is it better here?"

"I'm older here." He sighed, but _god, _he didn't look it. He looked pale, the sweet pink bow of his lips and his unlined face, so incredibly young and so piercingly perfect, "It's easier to avoid prejudice when you aren't stuck in a school swimming with bigots who don't even know the meaning of the word." He laughed bitterly, "Funnily, that didn't actually make them any less skilled at the job. I mean, you still get that here. Same people, different faces. But," he said brightly, a little falsely so, "I haven't been attacked in the street, and I can't remember the last time anyone gave me trouble. Any of us for that matter." His voice lowered to a more sincere tone, "I like it here. So I guess for me that makes it better here."

"I'm glad." I said, with all the depth I could muster in two words. He so deserved to be happy.

"Me too." He nodded with brows furrowed, like he himself was only just realising how true that was.

We both picked at our food for a little while, then Kurt said, "I had fun last night."

I looked up, soaring, a balloon in the clouds, "Really?"

"Mm."

"So did I," I smiled, "I mean… it feels like the wrong word, given everything we talked about, but it was…" I paused, "It was nice."

He nodded, "I'm not a big fan of small talk anyway. It felt good to have someone to vent to about... everything. I hope it wasn't too much."

"Not at all," I murmured, spearing a piece of watermelon, and deciding to get the subject of Cedric out of the way, "When are you going to see him?"

He took a gulp of coffee and sighed, "I'm heading over to his dorm after this."

"Not looking forward to it?"

"Let's just say in this case I'd probably prefer mindless small talk." He deadpanned, "I have a feeling regardless of what comes out of this, it's going to be kind of heavy."

I think I was worryingly close to yelling, '_please_, say you're going to dump him,' so I bit my tongue sharply and paused for a second before speaking.

"Well… whatever happens, I mean…" I struggled to find the right set of words, "This sounds so trite, but if you need someone to talk to, or… or talk _at_, you know where to find me. That is, if Quinn or the other's aren't available."

"Thanks. I think…" he looked up at me through dusty lashes, too beautiful, steam curling around his face, "I actually feel more comfortable talking about this stuff with you."

My heart went into a tailspin, colliding with my ribcage like a pinball. It sent a pleasant little Mexican wave of goose-bumps flurrying across my skin that felt so severe I worried that they'd be visible.

"Um…" my voice came out mutinously strangled, and I cleared my throat, "Why?"

"You're just…" he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, "You were really impartial last night. And kind of blunt."

_Oh_. I felt abruptly hot, "Sorry."

He laughed, probably at how far my face was capable of falling in the space of three seconds, "No, it's a good thing, Blaine. I don't know many people… actually, I'm not sure I know _anyone_ who understands when I'd just like them to either be honest and objective or not say a word." He frowned, "And sometimes I _do_ just want sympathy or advice, but it was nice to not get it unquestioningly."

I knew _exactly_ what he meant, and that inconsequential detail filled me with a couple of gorgeous seconds of utter peace, like the tide coming in, washing away footprints and furrows scarring the sundried sand.

"My pleasure." I said quietly, centring myself.

He poked his tongue between his teeth for a second, "I'm sure it won't be after a few weeks of me running to you whenever I need a self-indulgent whine."

"Oh, I dunno…" I murmured.

I felt ready, and clutched my coffee tightly.

"I have to tell…" No. I ecstatically realised that wasn't quiteright, "I _want _to tell you something, too."

"Yeah?" Kurt cocked his head a little, "Go for it."

How was it that everyone but me managed to make that sound so easy?

"It's kind of big." I laughed weakly.

"That's okay."

"And I probably should have told you already."

"Okay…" he said slowly, a distinct look of curiosity in his furrowed brow and slightly parted lips.

"Um…" my voice kind of hissed out of me, uncooperative, and probably even more telling of my hesitance than my guarded body language; one arm clamped around my waist, one hand tucked in my underarm, and my eyes darting wildly. I could feel a sheen of sweat on my forehead, and I wished I'd removed my coat when I'd sat down.

Kurt put his coffee down, concerned, "Blaine, I feel like you're about to tell me your dad's in the mafia, or you've killed a man."

My name passing his lips gave me another fleeting moment of that bizarre calm. He somehow managed to make that one syllable, so familiar to me as to be the single most dull name on Earth, sound fascinating and profound.

"No. Nothing like that. It's nothing awful. Or illegal,"I stuttered, "I just… I feel a little bad for keeping it from you."

He hummed and gave a little one shouldered shrug, his voice warm and encouraging, "We've known each other for less than a month. You aren't obliged to tell me anything."

I paused for a long time, gnawing on my bottom lip, mind racing.

It wasn't like I didn't want to tell him I was gay. I mean it when I say I've never been ashamed of my sexual orientation, but… amongst everything else, I was somewhat humiliated that I'd kept it from Kurt for as long as I had. While in a way my homosexuality defines every scrap of me, it isn't all of me. Well… it is, but it it's complicated.

It took me a while, but I think I finally fully understood my reticence to be completely forthcoming about it. I remember when I was in high school. Even after everything that Malcolm and I went through, I was still stubbornly honest about my homosexuality. It was easier in a self-contained community where, through gossip and note passing, everyone just _knew_ every secret that ever passed anyone's lips. Once I graduated, like everything else, it just got_ harder_.

I don't know if it was the fault of the company I'd kept over the years, or just my imagination, but there was rarely ever an instance when the people I told, straight or gay, treated me the same once they knew. Not everyone was as effortlessly comfortable as Puck and Santana had been. It's one thing for acquaintances to switch from asking me if I have a girlfriend, to asking me if I have a boyfriend. Those sorts of little changes are fine, and expected, but to treat me like a different person altogether? Like the fact that I'm gay alters everything they thought they knew about me? I couldn't stand that. It was like a shock to the system that utterly jolted my approach to being 'out.'

I think I'd grown to love the moment, the bittersweet reprieve, when I wasn't the Blaine Anderson _I_ knew, but the Blaine Anderson people chose to make of me. I can't reiterate enough how happy I am with my homosexuality. If I were given the opportunity, it's one of the few things about myself that I would never change. I'd simply grown tired of the look; that familiar look that people sometimes got. There was no one word for it and it varied constantly, but it was always recognisable. A pity, or overly eager understanding, or disgust, or bizarre unquestioning acceptance, or anger, or the odd feeling that I'd suddenly become prey. I meet new people so often, and I'd convinced myself that to essentially have to come out to every single one of them and catch that look on every second face was _too much_. Simply for being the way I am. The way I was born.

If I was on the other end of that look on a daily basis, I'm pretty sure my heart would break.

That's why I don't just tell people. That's why I wait. Wait for trust or a sense that any response will be genuine as opposed to knee jerk. I'd figured out almost immediately that Kurt was the kind I could confide in, but for whatever reason I hadn't, and guilt laced my veins.

In Kurt's case, there was also an added fear. Telling him was also making myself… available. Not that I had any illusions that he'd want me once he knew, but the idea that he wasn't, or wouldn't, or couldn't ever be interested in me was scary in itself.

Honestly, I think I'd reached a point where I couldn't even tell if I was being careful or cowardly.

That kind of broke my heart too.

I took a deep, deep breath, held Kurt's questioning stare, and it felt a little like the world was falling away from under me.

"I'm gay."

Kurt's eyebrows raised a little, his head tilting and his eyes narrowing the tiniest bit before he nodded, "Okay."

And just like that the ground rushed back up, solid under my feet. I wasn't sure what I'd expected him to say, but I couldn't deny that I'd thought maybe his reaction would have been a little more dramatic.

"Um…" my hand found its way to the back of my neck and scratched at the loose curls there, my eyes averted, "Did you know?"

"No." he said, "I didn't."

I didn't know what to say. I just kept staring at my swiftly cooling coffee, face flushed, feeling painfully, childishly foolish. After a moment I heard Kurt exhale and felt his fingers close around my elbow, gently pulling my arm down from where it was still nervously worrying.

"Hey," he said quietly, waiting until I finally looked up to his kind, searching gaze, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I whispered, willing my eyes not to prickle for the second time that day.

He smiled sweetly, "Did you expect me to disown you and tell you I didn't want us to be friends anymore?"

I inhaled, letting it out in a rush, "No. I just… I feel like a fucking idiot for not telling you earlier," I backtracked, "No, I _know_ I'm a fucking idiot for not telling you."

Kurt moved his grip down my forearm, loosely gripping my hand, "This isn't… you've known you're gay for a while, right? You're not coming out to me, are you? Not that that changes anything, but just to clarify."

"No, no. I've known for a while," I stammered, "Since high school."

"Is there a reason you didn't tell me?" He ventured.

"Not a good one," I found myself laughing, though it was the last thing I felt like doing, "I just… I don't tell many people. There are only a handful of people here who _do_ know, and I didn't actually mean to tell them… I guess."

Kurt looked down at my hand, absently playing with my fingers on the grey Formica table, "I'm not trying to send you on a guilt trip for keeping it from me, but of all the people you could have… _confided_ in, I'd have thought I'd be a safe bet."

"You are." I murmured.

"Or David or Santana. Even Quinn."

"Um," I cough faintly, "Santana knows, actually. She kind of worked it out. A while ago."

"Oh," he chuckled, "Remind me to ask where she gets her gaydar serviced. I think mine could use a tune."

"You had _no_ idea?" I asked.

"Blaine," he tapped my hand and let go, and it took all of my willpower to force myself not to chase after it, "I have plenty of straight male friends," he paused, "Well, I have a few straight male friends, but I don't generally spend my time trying to suss out whether they're actually gay or not."

I snorted, fanning my hands and fluttering my fingers half-heartedly, "Ta da."

He smiled, his eyes scanning my face, "You said there isn't a _good _reason you didn't want me to know, but are you going to tell me what the bad reason was?"

I pointed to his chest, "You don't have that hip flask hidden in your coat, do you?"

He laughed, his eyes crinkling, "Eleven o'clock. Just a little early for vodka, wouldn't you say?"

"No."

"You don't have to tell me."

I sighed, "I didn't _not _want you to know. And it's nothing personal. It's just… me."

"Will you tell me eventually?" he asked, "Once you trust me?"

"I… what?" I furrowed my brow, "Kurt, I trust you _now_. I realise I'm not the best at showing it, but I _do_. I can tell you right now that the reason I didn't let you know I'm gay straight away is that I'm harmfully insular and overly analytical, and… and I don't think I'm ready to explain _that_ yet. But, I hope I will be… eventually. If you'll still want to listen."

I imagine Santana would have popped a bottle of champagne had she heard me admit that.

"I will." He said firmly, "Thank you."

I looked down, "It's nothing."

He craned his neck to catch my eye, a crooked grin on his face, "Something tells me that isn't quite true."

He was right. It was everything. I'd just vowed to let him in on a part of myself that I'd never before opened to another human being. To explain my secrecy was to explain my past with Malcolm and my transfer to Dalton. It was _everything._ And the strangest part was that when I swore it, it wasn't a lie. I knew that one day, whether it was in a week or a year or some time more distant than that, I would tell him _all_ of the detrimental, reserved things that had gathered dust in the back of my mind and crippled me with their weight.

"Just…" Kurt swallowed, voice low, "Promise me you're okay? There isn't something sinister going on here that you really should tell someone, but won't?"

"No! No," I insisted, shaking my head fiercely, "It's… not at all. It's just, you know… old scars and all that."

He snorted, "Yeah. I can relate."

"Mine are metaphorical." I said, without thinking.

"I can relate." He repeated, eyes wide and earnest.

Of course he could. I didn't know him well enough to know if this was true or not, but I'd come to the assumption that Kurt was infinitely stronger and braver than I was. I was _certain _he was to some extent, at least. The way he carried himself and the confidence he exuded could be faked, though I didn't think they were. The main thing that set him apart from me was his willingness to show when he was unhappy or angry or anything fallible, anything other than_ fine_. Or… maybe it wasn't a _willingness_, but he revealed it regardless.

_My_ outer image may as well have been trapped in stasis, and with it, my ability to move forward in essentially every way. I was stuck, and had been for so long that I considered it normal. Kurt made me ashamed of that, but instead of resenting him for it, I wanted him to teach me.

I wanted to be courageous.

My hands shook minutely and I buried them in my lap, though didn't wait until my voice was steady to tremulously ask, "You don't… do you think less of me for not telling everyone I'm gay?"

Kurt shook his head, and shrugged, "Who am I to tell you how to live your life? Nothing's black and white. I don't judge you." He put his hand out in the centre of the table, palm up, and I stared at it for a second before bringing one of my own back up, holding on tight and physically _needing_ his contact, "I never will, either. Just so you know. You don't have to worry about unburdening on me, if you ever need to."

I took a shuddery breath.

_In with both feet._

"I do."

"In your own time." He said quietly, still not releasing my hand.

We were silent and still for quite a while. Kurt's skin was warm and dry against mine, smooth and firm and anchoring, and I didn't think I could actually let go unless he did

For the sake of him ever getting his limb back, I regrettably whispered, "Do you need to go?"

He glanced down at his watch on his opposite wrist, his lips pursing, "I probably should," his thumb twitched against the flesh of my palm, "I wish I didn't have to."

_You don't, you don't, you don't. Don't go to him._

"It's okay," I smiled a little and our hands finally parted, his a fraction of a second before my own, "I think… I think I'm done talking anyway."

"As long as you're sure."

"I am." Apparently there were now two people in Albarn who were eager to look out for me, and I was so _overwhelmingly_ happy that Kurt was one of them.

I stood as he did, hovering and waiting to follow his lead. I could have cried when he made his way around to my side of the table and, without hesitation, slid his arms firmly around my waist. I draped my own around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder, closing my eyes, my own breath warming my face and seeping into the fabric of his coat.

"Thank you." I mumbled. The words didn't feel strong enough, though. Why weren't there words to express the kind of gratitude I felt? It wasn't fair.

He just tightened his embrace briefly, his breath quietly puffing in my ear, eventually pulling back, his gaze hovering just above my eye line.

"Your hair's curly today." He said, as if he'd only just noticed my lack of gel, forgone when I'd rushed outside to meet him.

"Oh…" I dragged a hand through it self-consciously, my shoulders hunching, "Yeah."

He smiled amiably, "It's cute."

"Thanks…" I said automatically, my mind suddenly blank. If it hadn't been, I probably would have embarrassed myself by repaying the compliment far too enthusiastically, so I guess it was for the best.

"I'll see you later, then." He said, "Call me if you need. Or text."

"You too. After you've spoken to Cedric," I panicked, "Or… or, you know. Whenever."

"I think I will." He smiled, squeezing my arm fleetingly before turning and leaving.

I let my eyes fall shut, holding my breath for a few seconds before walking back over to the coffee counter, feeling somewhat floaty and disembodied. Kurt was heading over to Grayson to see Cedric, and I'd feel ridiculous following straight after him. I made myself a tea, hot and sweeter than I'd usually take it, the way my mum used to fix it when I was sick.

I wandered back slowly, holding the cup close to my face, and abruptly too exhausted to even _think._ I don't think I wanted to think. It was odd, but refreshing, not instantly seeking to dissect what had just happened.

I trudged up to my floor, casting a glance at Cedric's door as I passed it, and letting myself into my room, kicking my shoes off and propping myself against the pillows in my bed. I drank my tea in tiny sips, not reading or turning my lap top on, simply coasting on the vague fuzziness and undeniable heavy relief that had descended upon me.

Eventually I curled on my side on top of the blankets, retrieving my phone from my pocket to place next to my head, closing my eyes and drifting off swiftly.

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><p>I slowly emerged from my sleep at the sound of a text alert, though it was probably ten minutes or so before I bothered to open my eyes. I was surprised to find that the sun had almost set, my room swathed in long shadows. I couldn't recall the last time I'd slept a day away. Probably not since I'd last been cut down with the flu, and I'm pretty sure that had been back at Dalton.<p>

My head was cottony and sluggish as I blindly padded around for my cell, unlocking it to find a text from Kurt that I hadn't actually expected, and blinking at the bright screen as I opened it.

As I read it, my heart sank, thudding dully against my spine.

_I think Ced and I just made up._

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><p><em>[AN Basically, this is the part where I pray that you guys trust me..._

_P.S. Reviews make me ridiculously happy. For some reason you guys never leave them anymore :(  
><em>


	13. Chapter 12

_[A/N TUUUUUURNING POINT! I've been waiting a long time to get to this point (oh, hey, maybe I should write faster...) Anyway, I'm excited for the next few chapters, and ugh, I just want to say thank you, thank you, thank you all for reading this uneventful, slow fic. It makes me so happy when even one person enjoys something I write, and this fic is pretty damn dear to me, so it makes my heart grow. _

_Also... I never intended for there to be so much Blaintana in this. I'm still not sure how that happened, but focus will be more on Klaine hereon, instead of just the Blaine in Klaine.]_

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><p>I couldn't figure out what I was feeling after Kurt's text.<p>

Sadness. I felt that. I felt a whole lot of that.

I wasn't even entirely sure what to make of the text.

_I think Ced and I just made up._

He_ thought_. Not _they had. _I didn't know whether that meant he had reservations, or if they'd broken up amicably, or if they were still together, but a little rocky and cautious. My mind is a prowling black hound. The kind that can do without the freedom to construct its own conclusions, but it was like it couldn't even find the strength to run wild. It just grimly settled on _they _must_ have reconciled_.

Mostly, I felt like I'd missed my train. I was running down the platform, heavy suitcase in my hand, silently screaming for it to wait as it turned a corner and chugged out of sight in soot and coal, leaving me bent double, hands on my knees as I gasped to regain my breath and got left behind. Not even significant enough to be missed, or present enough to be forgotten.

Which was probably a great deal worse than I had any right to feel, but I suppose that's self-pity, isn't it? From the inside, from the sufferer's point of view, it's a crushing weight that multiplies and grows with inhuman speed, feeding itself like oxygen feeds a flame, while from an outsiders perspective, they're left wondering what all the fuss is about.

I've thrown enough pity parties in my life and am self-aware enough to tell when they're over the top, but funnily, that wisdom still never manages to lessen the sting of being let down.

On top of all that, Kurt wasn't even aware that he _had_ let me down in not ditching Cedric's two-timing ass. How could he be?

I had no right to feel awful. But I did.

Immediately after I received his text I flopped back down on my bed, rolling onto my side and nestling my head in the crook of my arm.

I guess it was unhealthy, how much I'd fallen for Kurt. Just how much I'd let my future happiness hinge on him being single and unattached. It wasn't something I felt I could or should apologise for, and I sincerely doubt it was something I could even change if I wanted to, but in my new home in Albarn, where I knew very few people, I had depended on his personal actions to excess.

Amongst all that pity, I also found I still had a great deal of room for worry. I was certain Cedric didn't make Kurt happy and I couldn't see that in the future he would. Someone who'd gone behind his back so many times could _never _be enough for him. It was probably arrogant of me to think I _would_ be able to make Kurt happy, but I wanted to. That had to count for something. That desperate _want. _If nothing else, _surely_ he'd be happier without Cedric, the complicating, convoluting, chain smoking tool.

I think I hated Cedric then. An immature flash of it that simmered and scorched. The only other person I've ever hated was Malcolm's dad, so I suppose in comparison to that concentrated, warranted revulsion it wasn't genuine hate, but at that moment, alone in my dark room, it felt like it.

I buried my face in my pillow and sighed. Half of me really wanted to call Kurt and clarify what he'd meant _exactly_. The other half couldn't think of anything worse.

Except maybe that he wouldn't pick up, and then my bitch of an imagination would be left to wonder if it was because he was with Cedric, and wasn't able to talk. Whether because they were kissing, or talking, or fucking, or sleeping side by side, naked, tangled and sated. Kurt was so much more to me than a beautiful face and a lithe body, but the idea of Cedric's hands anywhere near his lovely pale skin made me clench my teeth and resist the urge to punch the wall. Absurd really, given that they'd no doubt had sex countless times in their relationship, but I felt sick for every abstract occasion.

Something else I've discovered over the years is how much easier it is to rebuild walls than it is to tear them down. That may have been what scared me the most. In a literal sense you'd think it would be the opposite. Aim a wrecking ball, let it swing and watch the labour of hundreds of hands crumble and be swept away as so much useless detritus.

In a metaphorical sense, all it would have taken was a hardening of my jaw and a tiny glimmer of self-doubt that I'd been wrong to allow myself to hope for anything from Kurt, and I'd been wrong to let him in.

For once, my resolve was strongly against that outcome. I'd built something in Albarn. I saw so much potential to grow and gain and improve myself, and the idea of those old walls slamming up, fortified and stronger than ever made me break out in a cold sweat. Now I had something to lose, if only Santana, Puck and Kurt.

If _only._ That was a joke. My parents aside (and they were more of rote importance to me; bound by blood and shared years and the odd love that came with that) after only a few weeks they were the most important people in my life, and I couldn't bear the thought of giving them reason to drift away and give up on me. It was easy enough to laugh and assume that Santana wouldn't leave me alone until hell froze over, but that wasn't a given, and surely even she had her limits.

I was stone cold petrified by it, but I wasn't going to tuck myself away and hide anymore. _I wasn't._ I didn't want the only emotions that came _easily_ to me to be the ones that so consistently made me feel wrong. Twisted up and tied in knots. It felt like flinging the doors and windows open in an old, disused house, arrows of light sparking in and gusts of fresh air searching out shadowy corners to clear out the dank. I was going to cling to my friends for as long as I could, and if they eventually pried my hands from them and turned their backs, I wouldn't let it be through active fault of mine. Not anymore.

Even as I lay there I found myself wanting to reach for my discarded phone and dial Santana's number. That was… profound. I didn't even know what I wanted to say to her, or what I'd want to hear in return, but I needed a friend.

Not wanted. _Needed._

I needed to hear her voice and her barbs and a string of excess swear words. I needed her to be indignant where I was too muddled to be anything but crestfallen. I felt so relieved to have a confidant that I'd never thought I'd appreciate, and for the first time since I'd met her, I was so, _so _thankful for her lack of respect for my privacy and my secrecy.

I scrolled through my contacts and dialled her number without hesitation, the glow of my phone leaving me momentarily blinded as the sun fully set and I held it firmly, almost painfully, to my ear. I exhaled in relief when she picked up on the third ring.

"Well, hello." She greeted, "You read my mind, I was just about to call you to see if you stuck to your guns, and make sure you weren't freaking out or anything."

"He took him back." I murmured, my voice coming out more strained than I'd have liked.

There was a beat, "He what now?"

"Kurt," I grimaced, "I think he took Cedric back."

"Oh,_ Blaine_," she sighed, "Sweetheart."

I laughed weakly, barely a shudder of breath, "Sweetheart?"

"It's your fault," she said stiffly, like she really hadn't intended the pet name, "You're like a little orphaned duckling, it makes me maternal," she paused, "It's gross."

"Thanks."

"The baby animal is pretty interchangeable actually. Puppy, lamb. You're all weak and helpless and…" I heard her exhale heavily through her nose, "What do you mean, you _think_ he took him back?"

"He texted me and said they made up. I'm too pathetic to dig for details."

"Idiot…" she mumbled, quickly adding, "Not you. Kurt." She was silent for a second before she asked, "This has hit you pretty hard, hasn't it?"

"Yes." I answered quietly, "Like I said, I'm pathetic."

"Wow… when you mope you don't do it by halves." Oddly, she sounded a little impressed, "I'm coming over."

I sighed, "You don't have to do that. I don't want to ruin your night, too."

"Blaine, my plans for this evening were painting my toe nails, texting Brittany, and eating my weight in Dorito's, which, completely awesome as that was going to be, isn't as important as making sure you don't go and curl up in a ball in a shower cubicle or… listen to Leonard Cohen or some hippy acoustic shit and drown in your own tears."

"I'm not even crying." I grumbled.

"Because you're the Tinman."

"Is that a Friend of Dorothy joke?" I asked dryly.

"Oh, shit, I didn't even think of that!" She crowed delightedly.

"I have a heart, Santana." I deadpanned.

"Well, it's defective." Worn was more accurate, but I wasn't about to correct her, "I usually try to convince people otherwise, but tears don't _actually_ burn on their way out."

"I don't want to cry!" I snapped, accidentally petulant, "You aren't making me feel better!"

"Fine!" I heard a rustling and a shifting of breath, as if he was pushing herself to her feet, "But I'm still walking over to hang out and give you a shoulder to not cry on. Oh!" She chirped excitedly,  
>"If no one's stolen it yet, I have half a passionfruit cheesecake in the fridge that's so good it'll probably give you an orgasm."<p>

"That's…" I wrinkled my nose, then relaxed a little as the less crass section of her announcement sank in, "Actually, that sounds perfect."

"Really?" She snorted loudly, "You do have a right hand, don't you?"

"I meant the cheesecake and company, Santana!" I paused, "Mostly."

"Well, I'm not opposed to you getting off with me in the room, I'm just saying it's a little kinky."

I took a deep breath and sat up, "You might be the strangest friend I've ever had."

"The feeling's mutual, duckling." She said warmly, "Text me your room number and put your PJs on. I'll be there in ten."

At a brisk knock, I opened the door to find Santana in grey sweats, Ugg boots and a green Albarn hoodie, looking ever so slightly wary, like she was concerned at the state she'd find me in. I reached out immediately and tugged her close, sliding my arms around her slim, fleece padded waist, and burying my face in her neck.

"Hey, hey…" she soothed, rubbing light circles on my back with one hand, holding the cheesecake box out of harm's way with the other, "Settle down."

"Sorry." I murmured, voice muffled against her skin, citrusy perfume and moisturiser. She was just shorter than me, and it felt somehow comforting to be able to fold my own compact body over hers. Mal had been taller than me, Kurt was taller than me, I'd never hooked up with a guy who was shorter than me, nor shared that many hugs with such boys that could be classed as _innocent_, anyway. Something about hugging Santana felt paradoxically consuming and gentle.

"It's fine." She reassured, "I think I can handle the embarrassing title of 'cuddle friend' when you give such good cuddle."

I hummed, waves of anxiety rolling off and away in her presence, "I actually haven't had that much practice at it."

"Then you're a natural."

She kissed my temple, a surprisingly tender gesture that made me want to hold on tighter, and extricated herself, standing back and looking me up and down, taking in the same jeans and polo combo I'd been wearing all day, with the addition of a thick, grey shawl-collar sweater that was so cosy it felt like a mother's hug.

She pursed her lips, and after a second, asked, "No pyjamas?"

I looked down at my attire, shrugging half-heartedly, "I don't own any."

She arched an eyebrow, and I briefly thought I was going to get away from that admission without comment, only for her to smirk, "Me neither."

I laughed and closed my eyes, "As oddly comfortable as I feel around you, I think stripping down to my boxer briefs for an evening of dessert and wallowing is kind of crossing a really obvious line."

"You're still not my type," she pushed me backwards into the room and closed the door behind herself, "But you're a pretty little thing, and I wouldn't be particularly upset if I happened to have that image burned into my memory."

"Stop," I shook my head, "You're making this weird."

"You're weird." She countered automatically, holding the cake out, "Do you have forks or are we going to eat this with our fingers like the tragic slobs we are?"

I'd gone straight to the kitchen for utensils after we'd hung up, and I picked them up off my desk, waving them in front of her face. I hesitated for a moment, gazing around my tiny, sparsely furnished room. It didn't have a great many places to sit.

"Do you… want the chair?" I asked uncertainly.

"Shut up," she rolled her eyes, "Get on the damn bed. We're doing this properly."

I crawled on top of my covers without argument, settling back against the wall, lengthways across the bed with my feet dangling over the side. Santana propped herself up on my pillows and draped her legs over mine, balancing the cake box on her knees as I passed her a fork.

We both stabbed at the dessert, and Santana casually said, "I may have slightly exaggerated this cakes ability to bring you to climax, so try not to be disappointed if you don't actually come."

"Oh my god…" I murmured, closing my eyes and shovelling a forkful into my mouth so that I didn't have to respond. After a couple of chews my eyes flew open at the incredible taste, "Oh my _god._" I groaned.

"I know, right?" she grinned, "Tell me you don't feel it in your cock."

I held my hand up and yelled, "Please stop."

She cackled, poking me in the knee with her fork, "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm being as inappropriate as possible to try to distract you from the fact that it sounds like Kurt's ruining his own life, and unconsciously disrupting yours." She cleared her throat, "You're gonna wish you'd called someone else by the end of the night. I've never really done this whole comforting thing before, and it's kind of the only tactic I could think of."

"Well… thanks. Really, Santana." I sighed, "But it's enough that you're here, you know? I … I already feel a little bit better having you here."

She nodded slowly and ate a bite of cake, "The minute I see Kurt, I'm telling him he's making a mistake."

I looked up through my eyelashes, "Don't mention me."

"_God_, I won't. I'd have thought you could trust me to keep your secrets by now." She traced the shape of an 'S' deep into the passionfruit glaze, "Speaking of which, did you come out to him?"

I nodded, "Yeah."

"How'd it go?" she prompted.

"Fine," I shrugged, "It went fine. Just like you said. And…" I scrubbed a fist at my temple, "And for a second, it felt like, I dunno, progress. And now I just feels like Kurt knows I'm gay, and is still unavailable, which I should have expected all along."

"He should have dumped Ced." She said shortly.

I gazed up, right in her cautiously watchful eyes, "I shouldn't have got to a point where I'm shattered that he didn't."

We sat in silence for a minute, digging away at the edges of the dessert, watching it shrink with every mouthful. It felt so companionable and comfortable, if I'd been willing to try, I probably could have diverted my mind from Kurt altogether. Unfortunately Santana seemed just as incapable of changing the subject.

She licked the tines of her fork clean like a meticulous cat, and cleared her throat, "You should call him."

My response was immediate and stern, and said with a half full mouth, "No."

Santana's lips twitched upwards for a second at my sudden lack of manners, before she asked, "Are you angry with him?"

"No." I wasn't.

"Disappointed?"

"_No!_"

"Not even in a really petty, superficial way where you know you shouldn't be, but you resent him anyway?" She wheedled.

I gritted my teeth, "Santana…"

"So you're just angry with yourself." She concluded, smirking in a slightly too self-satisfied way.

I glared feebly, "Get out of my head."

"You think it's fun in your head?" she quickly added, "Don't answer that." Her eyes shifted to sympathetic in that way that always came as a surprise on her normally shrewd face, no matter how often I saw it, "It's not healthy, Blaine. You're the only person who could possibly find a way to place all blame on your shoulders in this situation. You're like fucking Atlas. Only less naked. Kurt's being a dumbass, and you're allowed to be pissed at him"

"Can I be pissed at Cedric instead?" I grumbled, aware and totally unconcerned with how immature I sounded.

Santana chuckled, "Babe, that's a natural as _breathing_, but if it gets you to vent, then go for it."

Venting… I had a whole lifetime of that stored up. I gnawed on my bottom lip, trying to decide where to start, twisting my fingers in my bedspread to keep them busy.

"There's this… ingrained part of me that's screaming for me to ignore Kurt. Like, literally cut him off. Because that's what I do." I sliced my hand through the air in front of me, "Just, do anything in my power to take a step back and accept that we're probably never going to be anything other than friends, and give myself the time to come to terms with that. But I can't. It's selfish and it wouldn't be fair, and I don't think I can stand the idea of hurting him or confusing him. At all. He doesn't know how I feel for him, it just wouldn't be _fair_. I can't begrudge him _anything_."

"You could, but you won't," she shook her fork at me, "Because you love him."

"I still don't know if that's true." I could feel myself blushing, still uncomfortable with the topic, but unable to avoid it, "I… I adore him. Every second I'm with him, I'm just staring at him thinking, 'god, you're gorgeous, I could listen to you talk all day, please keep talking.' But…" I tilted my head, eyes to the ceiling, "Maybe I just idolise him."

"Maybe. You're in deep either way." Santana was doing a terrible job of hiding a delighted grin, "Have you been in love before?"

_Oh god, oh god, oh god. _

_Malcolm._

As much as I wanted to become accustomed to sharing, we were venturing into dangerous waters, and I shifted awkwardly before answering, icy liquid filling my lungs.

"Yeah," I swallowed another mouthful of cake, tasting abruptly of ash, making me nauseous, my eyes averted and neck prickling, "Have you?"

She gave a careful one shouldered shrug, affected nonchalance, "Not yet." I could feel her eyes on me, waiting, and she tilted her head slightly, "Blaine?"

"It fucking sucked." I whispered.

Santana snorted, "They don't tell you that in the movies."

I sighed heavily, "Not to make you as jaded as me or anything, but love is the worst."

"No good parts at all?"

I ground my palm into my eye and let out a frustrated growl, "God, so many good parts. You know, just being able to say, 'I'm in love,' and know that you're loved back. It's just… indescribable. But it _hurts_ Santana." I finally looked up, "When you give yourself to someone like that… there's so much to lose, but when you're young you just don't _think_ about that, I was so stupid and naïve and _young_… and when it goes wrong… it's like having your chest torn open over and over again."

Her eyes widened, brows rising in unison, "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not drunk," I scowled, swatting at her thigh, "Unless you've spiked the cake."

"I haven't spiked the cake." She said patiently, "That just sounded… _really _dramatic, Blaine."

"I guess," I conceded, "Anything less doesn't feel strong enough, or I'd have toned it down."

She clapped her hands together in a tiny round of applause, like the fact that I wasn't sugar coating was something to celebrate.

I smiled weakly, not wanting to smile at all, and shook my head, "I'm just feeling… honest. I'm starting to feel like I need to be honest, and I'm trying it out on you. I'll stop if you like."

"Don't." She snapped, "It doesn't bother me, it just… kind of worries me. But if you're this honest with Kurt, I think it's more likely he'll want to wrap you up in cotton wool than sleep with you."

I cocked and eyebrow and smirked, "I know that you use sex as a metaphor for affection, you know. You aren't fooling me. Is it just easier for you to say you want to get in Brittany's pants than to say you want to have a relationship with her?"

"Hey, when did this conversation become about me?" She squawked, flipping the cake box shut and shoving it aside so she could jostle me with her feet.

"When I decided that this friendship is unhealthily focussed on me and my neuroses." I caught her ankles and held them, "And because you and I both know that neither of us are out for a quick fuck this time."

She stopped struggling , "This time?"

"It's been a while, but I'm not a monk." I murmured, "I quite literally love dick."

She threw her head back with one sharp, joyous _Hah_, "This Blaine's my favourite Blaine."

"Don't change the subject."

"Okay, fine." She folded her arms across her breasts and jutted her chin out sullenly, "I find it hard to reconcile feeling deeply for another human being with the fact that I'm generally considered pretty cold and promiscuous, and do very little to break that assumption because it's _easier_ that way. I love sex, and I see no shame in having it when I can, and if anyone else judges me for it, they can fuck off." She paused for a second like she was waiting for me to take offence or tell her I was disgusted, which I didn't and I wasn't, and she continued, voice slightly softer, "But I still want to get down to some of this really fucking awful love you speak so highly of." She pouted, "There. Now you've made _me_ admit something I never talk about. Happy, Doctor Phil?"

I nodded, adding, "I'd rather be Oprah."

She crumpled forwards, laughing, "You're so gay."

"_Tell _me you wouldn't rather be Oprah." I coaxed.

"Yes, I'd rather be Oprah, no I shouldn't perpetuate stereotypes, now eat your damn cake." She shoved the box back towards me.

I wrinkled my nose, frowning, "Nuh uh, I think I'm gonna puke."

"From eating too much, or from this heart-warming Brady Bunch moment we've just shared?"

"You started it." I cried.

She hummed, "If I'd known the monster I was creating, I'd have left you in your little emotional prison of one."

"I'm glad you didn't." I admitted, barely audible.

Santana wriggled and shifted, moving until she was sitting next to me, shoulder to shoulder, both of us staring ahead. It was another one of those occasions where I just knew she was on the verge of asking something significant, and my stomach filled with butterflies, unknown tension palpable.

"Um…" she said carefully, "This bad ending with… was it your last boyfriend?"

"Yeah." I croaked, my throat aching, "I've only had one."

"Okay," she continued, "So, what? Are you scorned, or whatever?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then he broke your heart." She guessed, painfully straight to the point.

My eyes drifted shut, hands in loose fists as I struggled to push away a sudden cloud of familiar misery, "He didn't mean to. I think…" my voice cracked, "I… I probably broke his too. It was a long time ago."

"Well, is it still broken?"

"I dunno. No. No, probably not." I tapped my temple with two fingers, "I'm pretty sure most of my problems have been up here for a while now."

"Blaine, what happened?"

Her voice was so gentle, and I felt her fingers, dry, warm and tentative, curling around my own. It was too much. It was abruptly too, too much, closing in on me and pressing against my ribs. Her compassion for something she didn't know or understand wasn't unwelcome, but if she offered even a sliver more I would crack and topple and _cry_ like all my insides had given way and hollowed out, and I had no idea whether or not I'd ever be able to stop.

"Can we please not talk about it, Santana?" I almost gasped, eyes still clenched, "I just… I really, really don't want to talk about it. I can't… I can't talk about it, okay?"

"Okay, fine, it's okay. Blaine…" She pulled her hand away slowly, and I was so grateful. It wasn't that I didn't want physical comfort, I just didn't want to lose myself, "Blaine? Hey. Hey, look at me."

I pried my eyes open and gazed up at her with barely dry eyes, probably looking like the most pitiful, tragic thing she'd ever seen. She in turn wore an expression of sweet, confused concern, lips pursed as she scanned my face and eventually sighed.

"What am I going to do with you?"

My heartbeat had mostly evened out, and I smiled as best I could, "If you can keep up what you're doing now, I can probably figure the rest out on my own."

"I hope so." She said, an unexpected slow and slightly wicked grin creeping across her face, her eyes sparkling, "D'you wanna hear about the time I accidentally walked in on Kurt jerking off in his bedroom?"

"_What?_" I spluttered, my mouth falling open, "No! No, no, I really don't! What the fuck?" I shoved her shoulder as she cackled, grateful for the blatant change in subject, but blushing scarlet.

"Are you sure? I'm pretty sure you'd like what I saw."

"Stop!"

We spent the next hour and a half trading wonderful, superficial facts and gossip about ourselves and our pasts, forsaking any talk of love and lost love and gradually slumping further down until we were both spreadeagled across my tiny bed, eyes to the ceiling as we spoke.

Santana told me about her abuela, the most important person in her life, who'd died three years ago and never learnt of her granddaughters sexual orientation. Santana visited her grave every year, and had told her since that she liked girls, murmuring to her tombstone, still torn between knowing whether she'd have been disgusted or accepting, but unable to find the heart to regret finding out.

I told her about the road trip my dad and I went on a month after Mal and I had split. How we'd inexplicably driven to Graceland together, sharing the wheel and staunchly avoiding the topic of my homosexuality and my breakup like my dad was attempting to relearn his son, while I was trying so very hard to relearn myself. It had been as strained as it was sweet, and I remember feeling affection for him in those couple of weeks that I never thought I'd have the chance to experience again. It should have been heartbreaking that he had to _try _to understand me, but the fact that he did was overwhelming. He didn't say a word about the nights on that trip when I'd lain awake, not-so-silently crying into unfamiliar, scentless pillows, but brought me black coffee without fail, and a 'you alright?' to which I'd always answer, 'fine, dad.' Strained smiles and stern palms clapped to my shoulders as we calmly accepted that we could never make everything alright for one another.

She told me about her birthday party the year before when Kurt had drunk jello shots, Quinn had passed out at eleven, and a game of truth or dare had resulted in David - reserved, formal David - giving Wes a shirtless lap dance that ended in them both toppling to the ground and splitting Wes' lip. She sat up and demonstrated with an obscene shimmy, and the both of us were in stitches laughing.

It was only when she left around eleven, kissing me on the cheek at the door and ordering me to call her in the morning, that I realised I hadn't thought of Kurt or Cedric for almost an hour. I'd been so relaxed and so at ease, and nothing had ever felt more like progress in my life.

I turned my laptop on, opening iTunes and clicking to a chilled out playlist of female artists - Joni Mitchell and Cat Power and Kate Bush - and lay on my back in bed, singing softy and twisting my hands absently in the hem of my sweater, sleepy and so blissfully, unexpectedly content.

I'd almost panicked when the subject of Mal had come up, and that made me worry for when the time came to tell Kurt about my past, like I'd said I would, and knew in my bones that whatever we were to each other in the future I still would, but… I felt that when the time came, there was a chance I'd be able to manage, and if not, then at least cope. That's all I'd been doing for years, anyway. Coping.

It wasn't until I allowed myself to forsake all my shields that I realised how heavily they'd been pressing upon me. It's such a cliché, but from my night of frivolous, jokey conversation with Santana, I truly felt like a weight had been lifted. It felt like I'd discovered that I could actually be happy being _myself_. Santana hadn't turned tail at the sight of the real Blaine, and the world hadn't ended because I'd let her see him.

I smiled a little, wrapping my tongue around a Joanna Newsom song, warbling in a shaky, weak falsetto.

… _I was all horns and thorns, sprung out fully formed, knock kneed and upright_

_So enough of this terror, we deserve to know light, and grow ever more lighter and lighter…_

My eyes were fluttering shut when my phone began ringing on my desk, jerking me from near sleep as I rolled lazily off my bed and picked it up, rubbing at an eye and freezing at the caller ID.

It was Kurt.

I steadied myself, paused my music, and accepted the call, holding my cell to my ear like a grenade.

"Hello?" I said cautiously.

"Hi, Blaine." His voice was tiny, a thready chirp of sound.

I swallowed, and ventured, "What's up? Are you okay?"

I heard him sniff quietly, "Are you in your dorm?"

"Yeah?"

"Come to the window."

I nodded, not remembering that he couldn't see me, and crossed my room, parting the curtains and squinting out into the night, gazing blindly for a second before I spotted him standing next to the same tree we'd huddled behind that very morning; a lifetime ago.

He waved his free hand at me for a second, and I could just make out his mouth moving as his words reached my ear, "I'm… I'm sorry it's late, but if you aren't busy, I could really use someone to talk to right now."

"Do you want me to come down?" I asked immediately, stepping back and sitting on my bed, pulling my shoes towards me.

"Please." He answered.

"I'll be there in a second." I swore, moving to hang up.

"Wait!" His voice was sharp.

I pressed the phone back to my ear, "I'm still here."

"Do you still have that bottle of Bourbon from last night?"

"Yeah…" I could hear Kurt breathing, slow and even, and when he didn't elaborate asked, "Kurt?"

"Just… can you just bring it down, okay?"

"Okay." I closed my eyes, "Stay where you are."

* * *

><p><em>[AN The last note my beta left me was 'Fuck you, that's cruel, is my baby okay?' So yeah... I know. I hate cliffhangers too, but this was going to be like 10,000 words. This part wasn't supposed to be so long. **I have problems with too many words.**_

_Thanks for reading, and thank you so much to all of you who left reviews when I blatantly begged last chapter. You make me happy._ x]


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